Suitably Numb
by Ernil i Pheriannath
Summary: John has a small breakdown after having to save Sherlock yet again. This brings back his PTSD, and he struggles to come to terms with what has happened to his wife and his best friend. Angst and whump, for those who love it. Bromance, no slash. And the lovely Greg. Please R&R. NOW BETA'd. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello there all. This was originally written as a one shot but it seems to have continued on. Please do let me know what you think, there is quite a back story to this and the story I have almost written in full explains even more of the back story though this should be able to be read stand alone without trouble. No slash I may add.**

**NOW BETA READ BY THE LOVE IO...thank you so very much!**

**Please do review. It always makes a writers day. : )**

**Enjoy the ride. Lol.**

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><p>Terror. That was what it felt like, complete and utter blinding terror. It was all John Watson could feel right now. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he barely registered the inspector shouting over the intolerable din. Intolerable. Would he ever hear that word uttered again from the genius's mouth?<p>

John set out at a full blown sprint, taking off across Westminster Bridge at the speed of light. Sherlock had gone into the water in the middle of the river after a struggle with the latest of London's low life's. Lestrade, coming to the rescue, had wrestled the offending individual to the concrete before John even had a chance to punch the bastard in the face. The inspector must have been following them in a squad car. The events were lost in John's head as he raced down the steps several at a time. Jumping the final flight and landing onto the pathway below he headed for the south bank. With any luck he could head off the detective at Waterloo Bridge, cutting off the corner of the river, the only chance to catch up with his flatmate before it was too late. Sherlock's head had only bobbed up a few times before being swept along with the violent autumn currents.

The doctor raced though the crowds at the London Eye, knocking several people off their feet, curse words thrown in his direction but he did not look back, eyes still fixed on the Thames for any signs of Sherlock resurfacing. How long had it been since his darn coat had dragged him under? A minute? Two? Three?

Before long the steps of Waterloo Bridge came into his sights. John bounced up two at a time, eyes half fixed on the water when he finally spotted him, across towards the other side as he expected. His black curls broke the surface, but the rest of him did not. In blind panic he pushed on, muscles burning, air sucking in and out of his screaming lungs. Buses and taxis blared horns at him as he bolted across the busy road. He crossed second bridge quicker, but perhaps because this time he had a target to reach. He lost sight of his friend upon reaching the last arch of the bridge. It was then the military part of John's brain kicked in. He planted his hands into the railings and catapulted himself up and over the top. Passers by rushed to the side and watched in trepidation as John hit the water and went under.

The freezing cold Thames hit the soldier harder than he imagined it would. As the water rushed up to meet him he felt a sharp pain rip into his right ankle. That would be fractured then, just a minor annoyance. He kicked desperately for the surface. It was only when the panic began to set in that daylight flooded his vision once again. After a frantic search he finally caught sight of his best friend, just ahead of him. He struck out, kicking wildly with the current to catch up with the detective, ankle screaming out in agony at the rough treatment, but John had only one thing in mind.

It was only a matter of seconds, (which had felt like minutes to the doctor) before John caught hold of Sherlock's heavy water laden coat, clearly weighing the lanky man down. He pulled hard, desperately fighting against the raging torrents and already freezing limbs. Hypothermia was going to set in soon. The bank was only metres away, a small jetty just out of reach, typically that owned by the RNLI lifeboats.

"Picked the right spot, Sherlock," John spluttered, reaching forward again, energy draining quickly now. His hand met the wood and he held on with an iron grip, hauling Sherlock with the opposite arm, grunting at the effort. He pushed the soaked detective up and onto the jetty, watching in complete horror as his body simply rolled limply onto his chest, his feet, remarkably still shod, dragging back in the Thames. John pulled himself up behind, ignoring the now complete uselessness of his right leg and the freezing cold now setting into his bones from the chilled November wind.

"Sherlock!" The doctor tried to even out his heaving breaths. He rolled the great man over, his hand coming to find his carotid pulse. Weak, barely palpable, but most definitely there. John's eyes fell on his friend's face, grey-white, black curls clinging to the pallid skin and lips a sickening shade of blue. Not breathing then. The doctor mode kicked in then. Pushing Sherlock's head back he pinched the man's nose and taking in a gulp of air he tried to reinflate the detective's lungs. No response. He tried again; a shot of panic began to take hold. Sherlock's lips were frozen like ice against the doctor's, surely not a good sign. Still no response; carotid pulse, still there, weaker, slower.

"Come on you dick," John's heart pounded against his aching chest, "You're not going like this." Sealing his lips over his friend's again, he refilled the congested lungs with as much air as he could. A pause. John pulled back suddenly and his friend's body convulsed. The splutter of water practically made it onto the doctor's face and John pushed the detective over into the recovery position. River spilled out onto the wooden jetty from Sherlock's lungs. An alarmingly large pool of water puddled before finally Sherlock tried to draw in fresh air. He coughed violently, trying desperately to suck in a breath only to convulse against the effort, more of the Thames bubbling up from deep in his chest. Finally after several strained gasps he retched pitifully, more water and what meagre contents of his stomach there were adding to the now disturbing amount of liquid expelled from the man.

"Easy." John tried to console Sherlock's straining form, still struggling for a full breath. Shivering started to rack the detective's body, his eyes drooping dramatically, clearly not registering a thing from the glassy stare he wore.

"Oh no, you stay awake you git!" John felt the shakes starting to pull on his own muscles. If he was already feeling the effects of hypothermia, God knows what his friend was feeling. Suitably numb.

"Christ, are you two trying to kill me?" A breathless voice cut though John's thoughts, and one exhausted looking inspector stumbled onto the jetty making the wood rock slightly. Greg's face turned from the slight annoyed red to a grim shade of grey when his eyes came to rest on the detective's form. "An ambulance is on its way, how is he?"

"Hypothermia." John felt his own teeth chatter saying it, knowing all too well he was succumbing to it too. "He was..."

John couldn't bring himself to say it. He clenched his jaw as he felt Lestrade's hand come to rest on his shoulder. He could feel his emotional wall beginning to crumble.

Sherlock moaned and coughed weakly from beneath him and the detective managed to push himself back over onto his back, away from the mess on the decking. Bracing his arms at his side he tried to push up, only to hiss in pain.

"Don't move you cock, you just bloody drowned!" His voice was wavering.

"J...John," the detective managed through a violent shudder of cold, his eyes slitting open only slightly.

That was it, the walls came crashing down. The doctor's eyes filled quickly with saltwater and began streaming down his already soaking cheeks. "Don't you ever do that again." His voice rose up angrily. "Do you hear me, Sherlock!"

"John." Lestrade pulled gently at the older man's shoulder but it fell on deaf ears.

"Are you listening?" John was practically shouting now. He jerked Greg's hand off him and taking his flatmate by the shoulders he shook him. "Are you listening, Sherlock?!"

Sherlock's eyes rolled and he tried desperately to open them fully to no avail. "John... p...please. I..." His voice slurred dramatically and eyes fell shut and it was followed by a long gasping bout of coughing.

"Don't you ever die again!" John bellowed. Slapping his best friend across the cheek hard, the sound brought the doctor out his angered daze and he froze. Looking down to the detective, he saw Sherlock's brows furrowed in pain, and uncontrollable tremors starting to overtake his frozen pale body. The blogger let out a cry of anguish then and buried his head into Sherlock's soaking coat. Letting the saltwater mix with the river water, he sobbed.

Lestrade, taken aback for a moment by the outburst of emotion, stood slightly perplexed on the spot, watching the scene before him. The bond between these two was stronger than he had ever seen. He had seen the wreck of the doctor after Sherlock's famous 'fall' from Bart's, and it came as no surprise how angry the detective made his flatmate.

"Ambulance service." A young lady appeared suddenly before him. That was quick.

"Eh." Still somehow shell shocked he lost his words for a moment. The second medic had passed the young lady and was trying to separate the doctor from his friend.

"Near drowning." Greg finally managed to speak. "I think John revived him. Both suffering hypothermia." He watched for a moment to see that the older medic was struggling to remove John's sobbing form from Sherlock's now quite obviously unconscious one.

"John." He placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder for the second time and this time John's red rimmed puffy eyes met his for a moment. "You need to let them help."

The doctor pulled back, but refused to let go of the Belstaff coat. This however seemed to pose little problems as the one medic pulled Sherlock's arm from the garment, removing his second jacket to find vascular access and place an IV line. Within moments, an oxygen mask was applied, half of the detective's clothes were stripped from him, and two IV catheters had been placed.

"Come on John, we need to get you to hospital too." Lestrade pulled gently but the doctor refused to move, an agonising shot of pain reminding him then that his ankle was broken. There would be no walking for a while.

"Ankle." The doctor managed to say finally, his voice barely audible to the inspector. He began to shiver again. "It's fractured."

"Oh." Greg faltered. "Hang on."

John didn't really notice where the inspector disappeared to, his eyes did not move from the medics working on his friend. He knew the procedure, and it wasn't long before Sherlock's form was already on a small trolley ready for moving to the ambulance. John felt sick. His friend's unconscious form back on a gurney, just like he had been outside the front of Bart's, just like at Magnussen's after the shooting. How many times was he going to almost lose this idiot before he wasn't able to save him and he lost him for good? John's stomach betrayed him, and he emptied it into the river just as Lestrade returned. The doctor felt a large heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Greg helped lift him gently into a wheelchair.

"I need to go with him." He choked out, watching as Sherlock's limp form was whisked off towards the waiting ambulance by the banks of the Thames.

"I know. I told them." Greg answered softly. He pushed John quickly after the paramedics and was before the waiting ambulance in moments.

The doctor took little note to the goings on. The cold was becoming overwhelming. His body started to shake with vigour. Somehow he was now inside the vehicle, Greg was to one side of him, and what seemed like a third medic had appeared before him trying to talk to him. John didn't answer the questions, he was tired and cold. A sharp pain in his hand brought his senses back to the forefront and he looked down to find an IV being taped into place, and a large warm bag of fluid beginning to flow into his veins. The ambulance doors closed. The blogger felt his eyes drift closed. They were safe finally, he could relax for once. In seconds he felt himself drift into darkness, the pain from his ankle and the agonising cold disappearing from his mind, now also suitably numb.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: sorry all for the lack of update. Here's chapter 2, chapter 3 is written so will be up shortly pending good feedback I suppose. Enjoy and let me know what you think.**

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><p>The first thing John realised before he had even opened his eyes was that his head was pounding, his arms were numb and a small throb of pain was ebbing slowly from his right ankle. Ah, yes, broken, he remembered it all now. Snapping his lids open, his eyes protested against the harsh hospital lighting.<p>

"Nice to see you're back with us, Mr. Watson." An unfamiliar voice sounded and the doctor looked sideways. A short stocky man came into his view, stethoscope around his neck and slightly concerned looking eyes peering over his glasses. Another doctor then, John deduced with ease.

"Do you remember what happened?"

John craned his neck further, taking a short peek into the bustling emergency department. "St Thomas's A&E."

"Very good," the doctor said in an almost patronising tone. "And do you remember why you're here?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock. Where is he?" The blogger tried to blink away the fuzzy feeling his head was giving him and pulled himself finally more upright on the bed. The endless array of blankets fell to John's waist. It was then he noted he was no longer in his clothes but a hospital gown.

"He is stable." The doctor informed him.

"But?" John could tell there was a but to come. The man sighed.

"He's not being very cooperative."

"Why does that not surprise me?" John felt his eyes roll, but his head rebelled, and the blogger couldn't help but let out a low groan in pain.

"We've had to sedate him." John could have rolled his eyes again but decided it better not to.

"Can I see him?" The blogger was already half out the bed, struggling with his newly plastered lower leg.

"I wouldn't advise it sir, but I have already been asked by the powers that be that you should see him. I don't know who's in charge of this place but..." the short doctor rambled on to himself out of earshot.

"Mycroft." John grumbled.

A wheelchair was presented to him then. The doctor had disappeared off and a skinny brunette nurse was in his place, kindly holding her hand out to assist John into his transportation. He thanked her and hobbled into the chair, still barely with it. What the hell had they given him? He hadn't felt this bad since he had... An anaesthetic.

He was half way down the corridor before he really could gather his thoughts. His broken ankle had probably needed surgery to repair. Damn, how long exactly had he been out? Three, four, five hours? John knew how long orthopaedic surgery could take and it was late afternoon from the peek of sky out the odd window he passed. He felt himself start to panic, not only did John know how long he'd probably left his best friend for but also knew what damage could have occurred to the great detective. Brain starved of oxygen for God knows how long, and the filthy Thames water had clogged in his lungs. The doctor wanted to be sick.

"Are you okay, Mr. Watson?" John then found the nurse bending in front of him. She must have noticed the look on his face because she wore an expression of concern.

"Fine." John swallowed back the rising bile and took a deep breath to find himself outside a closed door. Sherlock's private room, Mycroft's doing again then.

"Would you like a moment?"

"No." John shot quickly. "Thank you."

Finally the door opened to the doctor and what met him was near silence, save the slow beeping from an ECG monitor. John always hated that sound but right now the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat was the best thing he could hear.

The nurse kindly wheeled him in, leaving him close to the side of the bed as she left without a word. When the door was finally closed John peered around the room quickly to find Anthea in the far corner, perched in the shadows on her Blackberry. Mycroft was clearly either not far away or had been here earlier, leaving her in charge.

"Where's Mycroft?" John mused.

Anthea barely looked up from her phone but did reply. "Sorting out plans to get his brother out of here."

"He can't leave hospital, he just bloody drowned!" John tried to keep his voice down, not really sure why as the syringe driver of sedative was sure to keep his best friend in a deep slumber. Anthea gave him a single look which said otherwise and John rethought his statement. Sherlock did need to stay in bed, but if the events of the previous year were anything to go by... If being shot in the chest didn't keep the detective in his bed, drowning would certainly struggle to do so.

"John." A groggy voice from the bed brought the blogger's attention back round to the present.

"What the?" The doctor leant over the bed and found Sherlock's eyes cracked millimetres open.

"Do refrain from shouting John." The consulting detectives voice was slow and thick from the drug, and from the oxygen mask strapped to his face but he seemed reasonably coherent.

"How the bloody hell are you awake?"

"Don't be so tedious." He took a long breath and the doctor winced at the crackling sound of his friend's lungs. "Years of drug use does have its uses."

"You git." John pulled the younger man's hand into his own. It was still cold, although perhaps this was normal temperature for Sherlock. It's not like physical contact was allowed, only on the occasions one or the other was in danger or injured.

"Now would you kindly turn down my midazolam infusion?" The detective's strained voice box sounded again.

"No."

"Please John." Sherlock struggled with another crackling breath, "My left arm is too heavy with this ridiculous cast."

"What?" The doctor leant further over the bed and spotted the large cast encasing Sherlock's arm from wrist to elbow.

"Simple non-displaced fracture of the radius and ulna, just needed stabilising. I'll take it off in a couple of days."

"You will do no such thing, you'll need that on for at least 4 to 6 weeks. Any other injuries I should know about now?"

"Dull," the deceive huffed, ignoring the question. "Please John, I'm bored of this drug clouding my mind palace in a fog."

John pulled his arms back and folded them, "Well it hasn't fogged up your annoying personality."

Sherlock pulled his right arm up, somehow managing to dislodge the oxygen mask. "Please John. I want to go home," he wheezed.

"No," John quickly pushed the mask back into place and pulled the man's hand away from it. "But I think Mycroft is already on the case."

"Mycroft." Sherlock snarled half heartedly. "Why must he meddle?"

"Without him I think you'd be here for sometime. You should be grateful."

"Dull," the detective managed again, but this time his eyes slipped closed completely and his body gave up to the sedative.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I see we're not going down as well as A03. Anyway to those still following, enjoy and do let me know what you think. Chp 4 lined up soon.**

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><p>John Watson succumbed to the pull of sleep very quickly. Without realising, he had managed to face plant into the detective's bed sheets and was snoring lightly. Anthea paid little heed to him, letting the poor exhausted doctor rest, before it all began again. She stayed on watch, just as instructed to do.<p>

John woke hours later with a start, to a hand tapping him lightly across the cheek. With bleary eyes he looked up to find his best friend staring back at him.

"Sherlock? You're awake?" he mumbled, and cleared his throat, trying to get his bearings. The clock on the wall read 11:20pm. How long had he been out? Again.

"Obviously," the detective croaked and rolled his eyes. "Now would you kindly get off me so we can go home?"

John blinked twice and stared at himself, to find that he was in fact still half on Sherlock's arm and shoulder. Well, that was embarrassing, people would talk, those nurses were a gossiping lot.

"Wait a minute," the doctor straightened up, pushing himself fully back into his wheelchair. "Were you not sedated last time I checked?"

"Yes, I turned it off." Sherlock had already removed his oxygen mask and was in the process of prizing the extremely sticky ECG leads from his chest. The man had already somehow turned off the monitor itself to save its' angry bleeping resulting from patient disconnection.

"How?" John chose not to continue. Was there any point in asking how he'd managed it with a fractured and cast arm, already under a large dose of sedative? "What are you doing?" The blogger watched for a moment as the detective finished removing the leads and proceeded to yank his first IV line out. "Sherlock! Stop."

"We're going home John. I'm bored." The younger man let out a horrible deep chesty cough which seemed to continue for at least a minute.

"Like hell you're going home, you clearly have pneumonia setting in!" The blogger grabbed a handful of sheets, pressing it onto his friend's hand which was now bleeding from the old IV site, any dwelling sleep now all but gone.

"Mycroft said I could go home. I heard him." Sherlock's breath caught again and he was racked with coughs but he continued stubbornly to pull his feet towards the edge of the bed.

"Why must you always act like a bloody five year old!" John's voice started to rise with anger. "Stay there."

Sherlock paid no heed to his friend's raised voice and pushed himself weakly upright. A pinch of pain swept across his features which he tried his best to hide. "No," He gasped and coughed again, trying to stand.

"Sit down!" John full on shouted now.

"Yes, do sit down brother mine." The other Holmes appeared then through the door, his usual calm demeanour about him, umbrella in the crook of his arm and look of controlled fury in his eyes. A moment passed between the brothers. "Would you like the same treatment you had last time you drowned?" Mycroft added, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

"The last time?" John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and then back. "You mean, he's done this trick before?"

"Not quite." The older man stepped in and perched himself on a nearby chair. "Last time he OD'd on cocaine, took a seizure and fell into the Thames. Lucky for him Greg Lestrade was nearby to save him." Mycroft looked over to his brother. "Would you like to tell John about your little escapade in the hospital?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned in a very dangerous voice.

"I suggest you lay back down. I have made arrangements for you to leave in the morning," He answered. "Both of you," He added, regarding the doctor as well.

"Why?" A short cough.

"Because, brother mine," Mycroft replied firmly, "Right now you can barely manage it off oxygen. So I suggest you lay back down before you fall down."

John's face dropped and he regarded his best friend suddenly in doctor mode. Sherlock's face had lost what little colour it had regained since the drowning and his lips had started to tinge blue. Without even realising so he found the detective was drawing in great gulps of air against his already raw and horrible sounding throat.

"Lay down," the soldier in John commanded, and this time the younger man complied. Sherlock felt darkness creeping into the edge of his vision. "Call a doctor." John shouted to Mycroft.

"You are a doctor Mr. Watson."

"What?" John didn't turn to the older Holmes but kept his attention on Sherlock's weakening body. He grabbed the oxygen mask, pulling it over Sherlock's face. The detective showed no sign of resistance. A bit not good. He clipped the pulse oximetry back onto the man's finger, and with a hobble and slight wince he managed stand and turn the monitor back on to receive a reading. 90%, still a bit not good. Sherlock was outright panicking now, the look of terror in his eyes told John he was struggling for breath.

"I need you to calm down." John squeezed the detective's shoulder gently to bring his attention around. "I need you to slow your breathing down for me. I'm right here, nothing's going to happen. Copy my breathing okay?"

John could practically see the man trying to roll his eyes, but instead his lids started to droop. "Come on..." the blogger breathed in slowly and finally his flatmate complied. "That's it. Good."

Sherlock's breathing evened, but only to have the air catch in his throat. With a small splutter then a full blown hacking cough, panic set in again. His oxygen levels dropped and he struggled, eyes forced closed, brows knitted in agony. John could only guess how much pain he was in to be showing it.

"Sherlock!" The doctor tried to shake his shoulder to regain some sort of control. It was too late though. With a long drawn out breath the detective lost consciousness and his body relaxed into the bed. His breath almost instantaneously began to even and slow. John took his pulse. Elevated, to be expected. Not dangerously high or low and his oxygen levels started to increase on the screen.

"Well I suppose that solves that." Mycroft's voice came, just as John breathed a sigh of relief.

Anger flared up. "What the fuck are you playing at?!" John tried not to shout and rouse the patient, but it was difficult.

"Well if you,re going to be his doctor back at Baker Street, then you'll need to get used to these kinds of displays. He won't be an easy patient."

"I know what he's like," the blogger seared. "I've looked after him enough times. But that's no need to jeopardise his welfare and care."

"Come now." Mycroft scoffed. "You had it covered. You're an army doctor."

John huffed, finding himself sat back in the wheelchair, very much spent. God, he needed to sleep. "Why isn't he going home with you? Surely you have private doctors on hand?"

"He won't tolerate anyone else nursing him, and he will not stay with me. You know Sherlock, he'll insist on being at Baker Street. And if anyone says anything else he will go there anyway. Might I add, he escaped hospital and ran halfway across London with internal bleeding just for you doctor Watson."

John felt heat blush into his cheeks with both embarrassment and anger at his friend's stupid actions. "So?" he finally replied. "Why can't you sedate him?"

Mycroft eyed the blogger with caution. "And we both know how that works out."

John felt himself not winning this one. No matter how much he cared for the man next to him he did not fancy nursing a grumpy Sherlock back to health, stuck in a flat for days, weeks, on end. "You do know what he's like to look after don't you?" John pulled a hand across his face.

"All too well." The older Holmes almost cracked a smile but then it was gone. "Intolerable."

"I'd say." The doctor sighed. "He's not going to take being cooped up lightly. How am I supposed to keep him in the flat."

"He can hear you." The detective's weak voice sounded from behind the oxygen mask.

"I'm sure you'll find a way." Mycroft rose from the seat. He stepped forward to regard his brother. "Someone will be with you at 9am tomorrow to transport you both back to Baker Street. For now Sherlock, I suggest you stay put." Sherlock's eyes slit open slightly to look back at his brother with a flare of fury, if it was possible. "John, a nurse will be in soon to bring you a bed and sort you both for the night."

"Thank you."

With a swing of his umbrella Mycroft departed. "See you both very soon."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: thank you all for the comments. Do enjoy this chapter and review.**

**Paddy* - A British term meaning to throw a strop or temper. (probably regional as not all of us use it).**

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><p>John Watson could think of nothing worse than having to transport a groggy, grumpy and drugged detective back to 221B Baker Street with a broken ankle. Since waking up the entire morning had been nothing but intolerable in Sherlock's own words. Mycroft had managed to have his brother drugged heavily with Valium and although more compliant, Sherlock was proving to be more than a handful for the poor ambulance staff charged with his care. Firstly he had refused to ride in the ambulance, then refused a wheelchair, then refused help up to the flat even with Mrs. Hudson's cries of anguish at the look of the sickly detective. It was only John's authoritative soldier voice which had pushed the man into submission and after several hours of painful bickering Sherlock was situated on the sofa with John in his chair opposite, both silent and spent from the journey.<p>

"I'll get you boys a cuppa." Mrs. Hudson spent the next few minutes flitting about in the kitchen sending the pair of them worried glances from time to time.

"Thanks Mrs H," John sighed loudly, trying to stretch out both legs with difficulty and a small wince.

"You should have said if you needed a hand John. I've been worried sick about you both."

"We were okay." The doctor looked over to his best friend. Sherlock was curled slightly on the sofa, his eyes drooped closed. A small set of nasal prongs delivered extra oxygen to the detective. John had insisted that the man stayed on oxygen for a couple of days, considering the state of the Thames he inhaled. Wrangling a couple of oxygen cylinders was not the easiest of things.

John pulled himself up on his crutches and wobbled to the kitchen. "You know what he's like," he said finally, opening the fridge for milk. "Thank you Mrs H." He placed the milk down and leaned heavily back on the counter, sighing loudly as if to let go of some tension he didn't realise he was holding.

"It's no worry love." The landlady finished three cups of tea. "You need to take care of yourself, John. I know how much he can run us all ragged."

John hummed in reply, feeling a little useless being unable to carry the drinks. Mrs. Hudson took them and placed them into the living room. John wobbled back to his seat feeling like a spare part. When Mrs. H. returned she placed a small plate of biscuits down and sat in Sherlock's chair.

"So did Mycroft send you with any help?" The old lady sipped her tea, looking with worried eyes to the doctor.

"Sherlock forbid it." John took his own drink and cupped it in his hands warming his palms. "He'd never allow anyone else to treat him, not without being drugged out his brains like when..." the doctor trailed off, trying not to think about less than a year ago and what had changed since.

"Oh, John." Mrs. Hudson leaned forward grasping the man by the arm in a gesture of comfort. "It wasn't your fault love, you couldn't have done anything else for her, or Sherlock."

"I don't want to talk about it now." John's voice broke and he struggled with the never ending waterfall of emotion.

"Sorry love." The landlady smiled grimly. They both sat silently from then on, the only sound breaking the flat was Sherlock's ragged breathing and occasional cough. John kept half a wary eye on him and decided it best to leave the tea to cool down before rousing him to drink it. It was some time before finally the lady spoke again. "I'd better be going dear. I might make some Eccles cakes later. I know Sherlock likes them. Might be enough to tempt him to eat a little."

"Thanks, Mrs. H," John said for the second time. The lady disappeared then, making her way down to 221A. The doctor could hear her pottering about in the kitchen, the radio on.

He then turned his attention back to the sleeping detective on the sofa. Sherlock was spread out, legs on the opposite arm rest, head lolled to the side, mouth slightly lax. Even from across the room the doctor could hear the gentle whoosh of oxygen. John smiled sadly at him. Why did he have to keep getting himself into such a state? The first couple of years John had known the man it hadn't been too bad, the odd fight with a criminal, couple of head injuries but nothing like recently. Since getting back from his two year hiatus something was definitely different about the man, even if John couldn't put his finger on what. He had certainly seen more scrapes and injuries since, much to his bloggers shredded nerves.

John was loath to wake the sleeping man, but he knew, since Sherlock had ripped out his IV lines in a grump that they had 'itched' there was no way for him to stay hydrated except though drinking.

"Sherlock?" John tried calling half heartedly from a across the room. The man didn't stir. Getting up with a slight huff the doctor managed to hop across the room and plop down onto the coffee table. "Sherlock?" he tried again, this time a little louder. The detective's nose scrunched at his name but there was no other evidence of waking. John decided then there was no point in a softly, softly approach and pulled on the man's arm.

"Wake up you git, I need you to drink something."

"Joooohn..." Sherlock moaned, furrowing his brow in displeasure. "Why must you shout every time you wake me?"

The doctor chose not to answer. Instead, placing a hand behind his friend's back he began to push him into a more upright position. Sherlock winced, his breath catching, he started to cough hard. Long, racking, chesty coughs, followed by greedy gulps for air. The whole episode made John wince almost as much as the younger man did.

"Easy." John rubbed small circles on Sherlock's back, trying to ease the agony of each cough.

"Easy... for you... to say..." The hacks continued as the detective tried to speak again.

"Shut up and drink this." John shoved the now tepid cup of tea into Sherlock's good hand. "Do you want a straw?" he added.

The coughs ceased. "I'm not an invalid John," Sherlock snarled in return, snatching the drink from his friend. He brought the liquid to his mouth, screwing his face up in disgust as it met his lips. "This is barely warm. How am I supposed to drink this?"

The doctor sighed, making fists with his hands to try and stem his growing annoyance, already.

Sherlock sat further up, swinging his feet round so that they met the cool floor. "I'm not drinking this." He left the mug on the coffee table and scowled.

"You need to take these." John rummaged in the bag next to the sofa, coming out with two boxes of antibiotics and some pain relief.

"Why?!" The detective's paddy* was not about to stop anytime soon, it seemed.

"Because..." John took another breath and exhaled shakily, and paused to calm. "Just bloody take them." He pulled himself up on his crutches, standing. The man made it back across the room, planted himself down and without a word pulled out his laptop. He needed to find something to keep the detective busy. They had only been back a couple of hours and Sherlock was already throwing a paddy.

The search was fruitless. Lestrade was not forthcoming with any cases, not that John blamed him. He gave up, turning the television on for some background noise.

"Must you liquefy my brain with that drivel?" A cough followed the insult.

"Fine." John threw his arms in the air. Pressing the off button on the remote he stood up as quickly as his broken leg would allow. "I'm going to my room for a while." The doctor packed the laptop in a very convenient rucksack, one which he'd thought up. He slung the bag over his shoulders and stood before the detective.

"You don't need to watch me, I'm not about to expire."

"Suit yourself. You might be bored, but it's not my fault you threw yourself in the Thames. No need to throw your toys out the pram because you're not getting your own way. Do what you want. If you don't want my help then so be it."

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><p>John hid in his room for sometime. He plugged himself into the internet with his headphones, watching BBC iplayer, updating his blog and reading medical papers for several hours. It wasn't until at least late afternoon when he finally realised the daylight had almost diminished and tea time was approaching. Perhaps after a nap and a calm down the detective would be a bit more amenable about eating and taking his medication. Who was he kidding, John knew there was no getting the man out a mood. Sherlock could be like this for days, weeks at a time.<p>

The living room was dark when the doctor reached it after a hobble down the stairs. Good, he thought, hopefully that meant his flatmate had been sleeping.

"Sher..." John froze as he turned the light on. The sofa was empty, the cylinder of oxygen was still in situ and the nasal oxygen prongs lay discarded on the cushions, no doubt still hissing the gas through them. "Cock," the doctor swore.

"Sherlock!" he called. His crutches clicked as he moved into the room cautiously.

"Sherlock?" He turned toward the kitchen to find him. Strewn out, on his side. John could see him breathing, but it didn't help to calm his frayed nerves. "For f..." Leaving his bag he replaced it with the medical bag on his shoulder and made his way over.

"What the hell are you playing at!" John almost shouted, but when he reached the kitchen, turning the strip lighting on, his voice failed him. Sherlock lay on his side, eyes wide and staring, his skin and lips horribly pale and to John's horror his curls were soaked in red. A small streak of crimson made its way into a puddle on the lino, and a couple of smudges graced the detective's face where he had clearly touched the gash on his brow.

The doctor's face paled, his eyes widened, and breathing hitched up. It was Bart's, all over again. John's breaths came fast and sharp, blackened dots muddled his vision for a moment and he steadied himself on the table.

"Let me come through, please, I'm a doctor. He's my friend."

The doctor's vision blurred more, he felt his good leg giving out, and before he knew it he was on the floor before his best friend, a stain of red from the puddle now on his hands and clothes. John stared at his palms through a sea of unfallen tears. He'd killed him, it was all his fault, he'd not been fast enough, just like Afghanistan, just like Bart's, just like Mary. The blogger felt his throat constrict. He couldn't breathe. Even through the haze of knowing that this was just PTSD he couldn't bring himself back into control. An uncountable amount of time passed by and soldier thought he might lose himself completely until finally a weak voice pushed through his subconscious.

"John. I think I banged my head."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: many apologise for the delay. Works been mental and I've been a bit run down. I haven't forgotten the story. Been reading much of the lovely sevenpercent's beautiful writing. By the way the Mary death will be explained in later chapters do not worry. Please let me know what you think. : )**

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><p>Lestrade slammed the door of his car harder than he wanted to, the wind taking it. It was getting dark and he glanced up to the second floor window wondering what he was about to be greeted with. He'd promised John he'd stop by to check on the pair. Not only that, he was in desperate need of a statement from both of them. The powers that be had all but told him to get one whether he liked it or not.<p>

Mrs. Hudson met the inspector at the door. She smiled and let him in, commenting on the cold wintery wind which was sweeping down Baker Street. Greg declined the offer of a drink and made his way up to 221B. What met him there however, was not what he had expected.

"Hello?" Silence. He knocked quietly on the door but still nothing.

With a growing sense of dread he nudged the door and stepped into the gloomy living room. The lights were dim but the kitchen light was on full. Creeping around the corner he finally found them both. John was on his knees, his plastered lower leg bent out awkwardly as he sat on the floor. Tears were streaming endlessly down his pale cheeks, his breath was hitched and ragged, and his eyes darted around the room like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Greg knew in seconds the man was having a panic attack, likely a flashback. For a moment he thought the worst of the younger man strewn out on the floor, but Sherlock's weak voice sounded in the small chaos.

"John?"

When the inspector reached the blogger's side falling to his knees himself, Sherlock's face came into view, and the splash of blood across the kitchen floor. The pieces slotted into place. John was clearly having a flashback to the detective's famous fall from Bart's.

"John?" It was Lestrade asking this time. "John, I need you to look at me." He spoke softly and clearly. The doctor's eyes still darted around, wide and seemingly unseeing. His hands were shaking violently. "John?" He tried again. No luck.

Carefully Greg placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, and the reaction that came was not exactly unexpected. John's right fist came round in a powerful punch, far too fast for the other man to react. The fist connected with Lestrade's left cheek with an oomph. The inspector tumbled backward and to the floor beside Sherlock. Well, that went well.

"Graham?" Sherlock's slurred word met Lestrade's ears again. "What, are you doing here?"

Lestrade picked himself up, cupping a hand over his cheek that was now already beginning to bloom a beautiful shade of purple. How was he going to explain this shiner tomorrow?

"I'm here to see if you two are okay," Greg huffed, choosing not to correct the wrong name. "Which, might I add, you're both clearly not."

"I'm fine, just felt like a little lie down." Sherlock's voice broke into a cough and splutter.

"Sure you are." The inspector pulled what looked like a clean tea towel down from the work surface and folded it over. "Hold this here." He pressed the cloth onto the gash above the detective's eye.

"Why?"

"Because you're bleeding, you arrogant sod," Lestrade shot. Sherlock complied.

"Oh yes. I remember."

Greg rolled his eyes. Sherlock was sounding more than a little concussed. Priority one, get the detective up off the floor, stem the bleeding and get medical aid. Secondly, snap John out of PTSD episode and prevent the poor man from giving himself a heart attack. Thirdly, find some ice. Greg could feel his cheek swelling considerably.

"Can you stand for me?" Lestrade shifted the detective onto his back and heaved him up into a more sitting upright position.

"I'm not an invalid John." Sherlock swayed on the spot for a second, he closed his eyes tightly and then turned and vomited into the pool of blood. How delightful. Lestrade sighed and steadied the man as he coughed, expelling his stomach contents for the second time in nearly as many days. Perhaps he wasn't up for the walk across the room. The inspector could only guess how the idiot had managed it over here in the first place, and he was sure it wasn't with John's aid.

He turned to John once the detective was sitting up again, feeling a little more apprehensive about interacting with the man in the state he was in. "John, I need you to calm down. Sherlock is okay."

"I killed him," John whispered. He pulled his shaking hands into fists, and Lestrade flinched away waiting for another blow. It didn't come. "I killed him, I killed her."

Lestrade's heart ached at the man's words, blaming himself for not only Sherlock's fake death, but Mary's actual one too. He tried another approach.

"Captain Watson, you can stand down." His voice had an authoritative edge and it seemed to work. John's eyes blinked back a few more tears and seemed to focus a little more.

"Greg?" he finally said after some moments of blinking. He inhaled a deep breath, almost instantly slowing his hyperventilation. "What's going on?"

"You flashwack in." Sherlock's jumbled words came from behind the inspector.

"Yeah, that." He gingerly placed a hand back on the doctor's shoulder, this time not receiving a blow to the face. "You alright mate?" Greg looked into John's red and puffy eyes. "You with me?"

"Yeah." John's voice seemed a little stronger. He glanced to the floor. "Shit, who's bleeding?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade was loath to let the man see his best friend. "The ass only went and cut his head open."

"Jesus." John started forward but Lestrade pushed him back.

"I don't think so, mate. He's okay, he's right here." He pointed to Sherlock's slumped but still conscious form behind him. "I've got this." Lestrade pulled a chair out from the table. "Can you sit for me?" He pointed to it and John nodded.

Pulling himself roughly up John plonked himself unceremoniously into the seat. Lestrade stood himself then, and quickly rummaged in the kitchen drawers. He returned in a flash.

"Here." He gently pushed a glass of water into John's bloodied hands. Thankfully the doctor seemed oblivious to this fact for now. "Small sips. I'll get you some tea in a bit."

"Thank you." John put his head on his hand and leaned heavily on the table. His shaking limbs were starting to calm, but the effects of the panic attack had clearly taken their toll on the man.

Greg turned his attention back to Sherlock. He retrieved the bowl of fresh warm water and the medical kit from the side and bent back down to the detective's level. The genius' eyes were starting to droop considerably. "Oh no you don't." The inspector shook him back into consciousness, much to the man's protests. "Stay awake for me."

"Must you be so boring?" Sherlock replied.

"Yep, if you must be so damn annoying and not rest your sorry ass in bed where you should be." Greg smiled with affection for the man then. Sherlock sure was one annoying git, but he held a special place for him. Something about the young teenage druggie had won Greg's affection back in the day and he'd refuse to let the idiot turn out that way again.

"Go away Greg." The correct name this time, he must be feeling rough.

"No can do." The inspector dipped some fresh gauze into the warm water and went about cleaning up the detective's face. Sherlock tried to bat him off initially but finally gave in, allowing the man to clean off the blood as best as he could. Lestrade then applied a thick dressing over the small gash. The bleeding had almost ceased but it would be better to cover it until he could get Sherlock to have some proper medical attention. He left the man grumbling on the floor. He would try and move him in a bit, once he'd settled them both down. It was like playing mother with these two sometimes.

"Thank you." John said again from the table. He had finished his cup of water and retrieved his fallen crutches to stand.

"Are you sure you're up for...?"

"I'm fine Greg, thank you." John made his way over to the inspector. "Let me take a look at that cheek." He looked sheepishly to his friend.

"It's nothing." The man tried to hide his bruising skin in the shadows.

"Shit." John rounded a look on his face. "I am so sorry."

"It's alright," the inspector smiled, switching on the kettle. "You can help me make up a story for the MET tomorrow, ideally something where I save a damsel in distress in a daring and dangerous fight."

John laughed. "Okay," he replied, "but I am sorry, truly."

"I know. No hard feelings, eh?" Greg smiled, letting his eyes come to rest on the detective. "What are we going to do with him?"

"Bloody good question."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: thanks for the lovely reviews, keep them coming. I'm going to post two chapters tonight/this morning (it's nearly 3am here in the uk - I don't sleep much). Promise the pace will pick up after these two chapters. : )**

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><p>"We need to keep him awake for a bit, or at least keep waking him. He's likely to have concussion if he knocked himself out." John plonked two large steaming cups of tea down on the coffee table with still shaky hands.<p>

"He's right here," a slurred baritone came from the detective's spot on the floor.

Greg could do nothing except crack a very small and affectionate smile for the man. He'd seen the consultant in so many compromising and dangerous situations that the prospect of him sitting concussed on his own living room floor was slightly amusing.

"Well," John bent down to his friend, "first things first. I think a couple of stitches in that lovely little gash on your forehead of yours won't go amiss." He pointed to his friend's heavily bandaged head.

"Please John," Sherlock huffed, "no need, just a little cut."

"Just take five, John." Lestrade sat himself down on the sofa and beckoned to the nearby chairs. "Drink your tea."

John stood, was determined for a moment to rebel but watched his own still shaky hands, and then with a glance at the puddle of blood on the kitchen floor, his breath hitched.

"Come on mate." The inspector was by his side. John frowned. How had he gotten there so quick? "John, please. Sit down before you fall down." With the lack of crutches and his weaker leg taking the strain it would only be a matter of time. Lestrade guided him with difficulty to his chair, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "We're going to talk about this," he said firmly. "But first, you're going to drink this and we're going to sort out the prat in the corner, okay?"

"I can hear you." The detective cracked an eye open but snapped it shut at the prospect of light invading his vision.

"Good." Greg didn't look to the younger man, but kept his eyes on the doctor and watched him with concern as the man brought a shaky mug up to meet his lips. "You keep on hearing us, I'll get to you in a moment."

"No need, Graham," Sherlock groaned. "I don't need your assistance." The younger man pulled himself awkwardly upwards.

This time Greg groaned, but in annoyance rather than pain. "You really are a fucking prat aren't you?" He crossed the room, steadying the swaying detective with both arms. "Stop being so god damn stubborn and just do what you've been told."

"I never do what I'm told, inspector." Sherlock gleamed with a childish grin. His breath caught in his throat, sending the man into a fit of coughs. He grimaced as it clearly caused some discomfort in his aching head and agonising chest. He stumbled forward, trying and somewhat failing to walk. Greg guided the second flatmate across the living room and gently pushed him onto the sofa. The choking coughs had almost ceased but left the detective breathless. Greg pulled the nasal oxygen prongs from where they had been discarded and tried to reapply them to the man's face.

Sherlock flailed his only arm, uselessly batting the inspector away. "Just. Stop," he shouted breathlessly. "Fussing."

Greg's anger raged a little then. He pushed the younger man's hand down at the wrist, pinning it down. "Enough." He gritted his teeth and brought his face close to the consultant's. "If you don't stop fussing then you'll send John over into another PTSD flashback."

The detective stilled at Greg's outburst, letting the older man place the oxygen back in his nose. He glanced silently across the room, squinting his sore eyes. John seemed oblivious to the small commotion going on. His tea was held in front of him and eyes glazed over in a daze.

Lestrade sighed loudly. He left Sherlock. All anger dissipated the moment he brought his attention back to the doctor. He placed himself in the chair opposite John, gently taking the drink from the mans hands. It seemed to bring the man back around to reality.

"You with me?" Greg smiled sadly.

"Yeah. Sorry." John pulled his hands into fists. "I didn't mean to, you know..." he stuttered.

"It's okay," Lestrade answered. "No reason to be sorry. I'm blaming Sherlock on this one." No snide backchat appeared this time and Greg checked to see that the detective was clearly still awake and not slipping into a coma.

"I need to sort out the head wound." John went to rise.

"No you don't," the inspector shot quickly, getting the doctor to sit back down. "Not now, mate. Just please sit still."

John complied with ease. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to try and compose himself. Lestrade took his own deep breath. He was clearly not going to be able to leave the doctor in charge of the detective this time. Sherlock's little escapade in the Thames had evidently stirred up John's PTSD in some way. The break down at the river side had shown him that much, he just hadn't realised it had been quite this bad. With Sherlock playing his usual tricks there was no way he was going to leave these two alone in a room together for long. Sherlock would kill himself and in he process give his poor best friend a heart attack.

"Stay here," he asked the doctor before leaving and going to the bathroom. He opened the cupboard in search of drugs. The shelves seemed fit to bursting with them. Antibiotics, pain killers and other miscellaneous things. Greg didn't have a clue what they were for. Most of the prescriptions were for Sherlock, and all mostly full packets. After a small rummage he found what he was looking for and returned to the living room. John had managed another sip of his tea and by the looks of it the detective had slipped off to sleep. Greg would be sure to wake him in half an hour.

"Here." The inspector popped one small tablet out and handed it to John who took it without question. "It'll help."

"Thanks." The blogger barely looked at the tablet in his palm before swallowing and washing it down with a swig of now lukewarm tea.

Greg left him to finish the drink and returned to the kitchen with his empty mug. Placing the receptacle in the sink he located a mop and bucket, and filled the bucket with warm water and what little amount of an unknown cleaner he could find. He mopped up the bloody mess from the floor because he refused to let the boys' poor landlady do it. When he finally tipped the crimson stained water away he saw John yawn across the room.

"Perhaps you should take a nap, mate." Lestrade left the bucket draining in the sink. "You look done in."

"Can't." The blogger yawned. "Sherlock."

Greg smiled. The sedative was taking effect. He dare not ask what the heavy duty drugs had been prescribed to Sherlock for, let alone that it said take four for the man. One was clearly doing the job on John.

"I can look after him, don't worry. Seen my fair share of concussion, and my fair share of a grumpy detective, too."

John only nodded tiredly. "Make sure you wake him." He rose slowly, pulling over his nearby crutches. "Every hour for the first few. Ask him some stupid, mundane questions. If you get a snide remark you'll know his brain isn't swelling."

"I'm on it." Lestrade replied. "Done this before I'm afraid."

"I don't want to know." John could only guess. "If I'm not back in a couple of hours, then please wake me. I need to get that stitched." He waved to his friend, voice weak and tired.

"Will do. Need a hand?"

"Fine thanks." John managed the crutches well, even in his sleepy state.

Greg let him leave, listening carefully to hear the man manage the stairs and finally fall into his own bed with no trips along the way. He knew full well that John was likely to sleep through the night now. It would be a long night with the other man. Once he was happy with the detective he would run home to grab a few bits. He wasn't happy about leaving these two in each other's care.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: second chapter as promised. Some Lestrade and Sherlock interaction. Things will start to pick up pace a little in the next chapter. Some more heavy angst h/c to come. Enjoy for now, and please review my friends. : )**

***Russian for 'I will not!'**

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><p>The first time Lestrade woke Sherlock half an hour later, he very nearly did just call John up from his sleep upstairs.<p>

"Sherlock?" He shook the detective's shoulders to no prevail. He tapped the man's cheeks several times but still, nothing. In desperation he pinched the fingers of his bad wrist that were only just peeking out the end of the cast. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he gasped in pain or surprise. Which one it was, the inspector didn't know.

"Ya ne budu!"* the foreign tongue was almost bellowed from the detective. Sherlock jolted sideways as if he'd been shocked with electricity. Bouncing across the sofa, Lestrade tried to hold him back, but he shouted again, this time in English. "No!" Pushing the inspector away with strength that Greg didn't even think he had right now, Sherlock rolled over and landed in a heap on the floor, and the sudden impact seemed to bring him around then.

"Sherlock?" The policeman was by his side as the man sat up in a daze. "What the hell was that?"

"Must you wake me?" the consultant moaned and wiped a hand tiredly across his gaunt face. "I was sleeping perfectly fine."

"Clearly not dreaming fine." Greg brushed himself off almost as if to make a point that he'd been pushed half over. He offered a hand and helped the younger man back onto the couch.

"Stop being so absurd, Lestrade," Sherlock shot, his brows furrowing under the bandage in anger. If it caused discomfort he did not show it. "I do not. Have. Nightmares," he staccato'd the sentence in annoyance.

"Alright, whatever." The inspector held his hands up in defeat.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock growled.

"What?"

"You heard." The words almost snarled from the angry detective's lips this time.

"Since when is Sherlock Holmes ever hungry?" Greg stood up. Placing his hands on his hips he regarded the other man. "First you shout Russian at me, then fall off the sofa, then tell me you're hungry. You really must be concussed." He laughed a little.

"For goodness sake." The consult began pulling himself upright.

"Oh no you don't." The inspector pushed him back down into the cushions. "Stay right there."

Lestrade rummaged in the kitchen cupboards for some time, finding barely a morsel of actually edible food. The fridge was full of decomposing appendages, and what looked like a human spleen presented on a platter on one of the shelves. He shut the door quickly. Finally upon a search in the freezer and after sifting through two bags of frozen intestines and Tupperware boxes of god knew what, he found a frozen loaf of bread. Finally, something actually to eat. How on earth did these two survive, or at least, how did John? He knew full well the meal plan Sherlock usually followed. Placing two slices of bread into the toaster he found some marmalade in the cupboard, unopened and not mouldy like the rest of the kitchen. When the toast was finally done, and covered with a generous layer of marmalade he returned to the detective.

"Just great," Greg huffed. The man had already dropped off to sleep. "Ungrateful git." He plonked himself into John's chair and ate the toast himself.

The next time he woke the man it was much less eventful.

"Who's the Prime minister?"

"Piss off, Lestrade," was the only answer, but it was good enough.

The next few hours were exactly the same. Either a snide remark or a sworn message came his way when he woke and asked the detective questions. He decided that he'd wait two hours this time. That would bring it around to just after midnight. If Sherlock was still playing his arrogant self then he would pop home for some clothes and do some food shopping before returning and checking on the man again. And besides, at this time of night he didn't have to fight the traffic to get back across the river, it really wouldn't take long at all.

Much to his annoyance, Sherlock seemed more grumpy when he woke him at 12:15.

"If you can't count to three, inspector, then I'm not sure what you're doing at Scotland Yard with a degree. Perhaps I should get Mycroft to send you back to primary school." Sherlock folded his arms as dramatically as he could with a cast in the way. "Now stop waking me. I do not have a brain injury!"

"Point taken." Lestrade thought it maybe best not to continue with the mundane questions anymore. He left quickly after seeing the man fall back asleep. Returning to his car in the freezing gales, he found a bright yellow parking ticket slapped on the windscreen of the BMW. As if the day couldn't get better.

Greg had returned within the hour. Baker Street was silent. He checked quickly on John to find him sound asleep in bed, he hadn't changed and was still in his day clothes. Sherlock was soundo on the sofa, a slight rasp catching in his throat reminding him that the detective was still at risk of pneumonia.

The inspector made himself a warm drink. Curling up in John's chair he found a light fleece throw and wrapped himself in it. He would check on Sherlock in a few hours, but doze for now. Within minutes he was asleep, no alarm set, dead to the world.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

When Lestrade finally woke, the signs of dawn were breaking through the grey skies outside the window. "Shit." He glanced to his watch and his tired eyes widened at the numbers. 06:48am. How had he managed to fall asleep for so long? He stretched his crumpled limbs out in front of himself and straightened his aching neck. "Sherlock?" He turned to find an empty sofa.

"You cock," he ground out, standing a little too quickly, white edges clouding his vision for a moment. "Sherlock!" he bellowed across the flat. No answer. "If you've banged your bloody head again I'm going to fucking kill you!" He stomped across the room towards the detective's bedroom.

"In here." A weak and croaky voice sounded from the other side of the bathroom door.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lestrade roared.

"Urinating," Sherlock replied. "If you didn't know, it's a normal human function. The kidneys have to filter the blood..."

"Yes, I know what it is," Greg cut him off and stood with his nose almost to the door of the little room. "I meant, what are you doing up without assistance?"

"I fell in the Thames and drowned. My legs are perfectly fine thank you," the snarky comment answered, but the detective's voice was still a little off.

There was a long pause and the inspector didn't hear either the toilet flush or the sound of the tap running. "What are you doing in there?"

"None of your business."

"It is if I find out you're doing something you shouldn't be. We all know what you've been up to these past few months," Lestrade warned.

"That was not my fault," Sherlock sighed, "Must you always take things at face value? Drugs are not a simple thing."

"They are to me." The inspector put his serious voice on as best he could. "And if I find you have any stashed here it won't be so simple then."

The door unlocked and the detective came into view. "Do calm down, inspector." The consultant sighed and coughed weakly. "I am not doing drugs in the bathroom. Feel free to take a look around."

"Wouldn't be the first time if you were."

Sherlock sent the man a warning glance and the conversation ended.

"Hang on a minute." Greg followed him back into the living room and watched him stride into the kitchen. "Where's your head bandage?"

Sherlock gave him a glance again and chose not to answer. But a turn of the head revealed three neatly placed butterfly stitches across the gash on the man's head. The detective had clearly sorted the wound himself.

Lestrade sighed and decided to leave him to it, he would not win at this one. He joined the detective in the kitchen and helped him prepare some toast along with boiled eggs and two cups of breakfast tea. Sherlock wobbled back to the sofa with his plate and stumbled slightly, almost losing his food.

"You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock shot. He rubbed his temples and grimaced in pain as he took a short coughing fit.

"Are you sure? You're looking a bit flushed." The inspector made it across the room to check him.

"I am fine!" the detective snarled, shooting the older man a look that dared him to come any closer. Lestrade backed off in defeat.

The pair ate in silence, and much to the inspector's delight he found that Sherlock cleared his plate of food within minutes and downed his tea almost in one.

"Steady on, mate," he warned. "If you bring that up, I will not be cleaning your mess up again." He got another threatening stare.

Lestrade finished his own plate and it was then that John appeared in the doorway looking disheveled and still full of sleep.

"You drugged me," he said, and his tone was not pleasant.

The inspector exhaled. Great. Grumpy friend number two.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I really am on quite a writing spree, but I'm back to work tomorrow so I will see how it goes during the week. You can probably see where this is going. The little case that we're a our to follow will explain some things in time. I'm really having some fun with this story now.**

**TRIGGER WARNING- There are mentions of suicide and it's not meant to offend. My heart goes out to anyone who has lost loved ones and to those of the London Underground who have to deal with it.**

**Thats enough babbling. Enjoy and please review. Keep them coming. : )**

**ps. Thank you RoseJustice for the little idea, I popped it in there. Thanks all loyal followers.**

***BTP = British transport police.**

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><p>Greg gulped in anticipation. The prospect of an angry ex-soldier was not what he was looking forward to. He finally managed a word. "Sorry."<p>

John gave him a look which the inspector struggled to read. "I'm in two minds to give you a second black eye." The doctor looked sheepishly at the purple crescent under his friends lids and hobbled forward on the crutches, into the kitchen. "Except perhaps the first one was not my intention. So let's call it even, shall we?"

Lestrade let out a long breath he didn't realise he was holding. "I am sorry."

"Me too," John replied sadly, clicking the kettle on to boil its remaining contents.

At that very moment Greg's phone began to vibrate. The inspector excused himself for a moment, heading into the hallway to answer the phone.

"How are you feeling?" John looked to his friend and then poured the water into the cup, letting the drink brew.

"Much better thank you." Sherlock's gravelly voice seemed to say otherwise.

"I see you sorted your own head wound out." The doctor didn't look impressed. He finished making his tea and sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

"Contrary to belief John, I am able to look after myself you know."

"Hmm." The blogger didn't look up. He was reading the morning's Metro that Greg had clearly picked up at some point. "I saw how you managed to look after yourself last night."

"Yes, well that was a small oversight on my part," Sherlock coughed, a productive and disgusting sounding chesty cough that made the doctor frown in concern. "Won't happen again."

John's mood was not improving. "I swear to God, Sherlock, if you pull off another stunt like last night, I won't hesitate to bring in big brother. You'll be whisked off to a private hospital and won't come out for weeks."

"Like I said. Won't happen again." The detective was not really listening to his flat mate, but keeping half an ear on Lestrade's phone call the other side of the door.

"Have you taken your antibiotics?" John flicked through the newspaper.

"Yep." Sherlock rattled the box of tablets on the coffee table reading the script on the front. "Two tablets, three times a day," he recited.

John eyed him with caution and Lestrade re-entered the living room looking slightly flustered. "Everything alright inspector?" Sherlock was eager for information. It had only been a couple of days but already his mind was racing for something to do. Violin playing was out of the question with a broken arm. He needed a case.

"Er, yeah." Greg ran a hand through his hair. "Just a spot of bother on the tube. Nothing to concern yourself about."

"Not your division, Lestrade, so it must be something." Sherlock looked gleefully at the man, his mind edging for some deductions. "Not just a simple one under then?" he asked.

"I'm sure it's nothing," the inspector grabbed his coat from the rack and shrugged it onto his shoulders, "but I'd better be off to see what's happening. Piccadilly Line is carnage apparently, so I'd better help out."

"Have fun now." Sherlock smiled and Lestrade stopped in his tracks.

"Don't you even think about coming along," he warned, pointing his finger at the man who was still stretched out on the sofa, showing no signs of movement.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'm warning you." Greg could see the look in the detective's eye. "Do you want me to handcuff you to the sofa?"

"I wouldn't bother, he'd only pick the lock anyway," John huffed from the kitchen. Sadly the truth. The inspector hesitated for a moment then. "Go on I'll keep an eye on him don't worry," the doctor finally added after a pregnant pause. "I won't need drugs to knock him out, and I won't let him leave the flat."

Lestrade decided not to notice the hint at the previous evening's happenings. He nodded in acceptance. "Okay, but I won't be too long," he said. "I'll be back later to sort out the pair of you." And with that he was gone.

John remained at the table for some time, cautiously watching his flat mate from afar. He flicked silently through the newspaper until he finally came to the end. Sherlock had fiddled about on his phone for 5 minutes but now the man seemed to have dropped off to sleep.

"Nice try, mate," John shot across the room. "I know you're not asleep."

There was no answer and John began to believe that perhaps his friend really was actually asleep. He made his way over to the sofa and checked the detective. Breaths slightly faster than he would have liked, but it wasn't surprising considering the current circumstances. He replaced the oxygen to his friend's face and checked his pulse. Slow and steady, slightly bounding but strong. Inspecting the head wound, he was impressed with Sherlock's own neat handy work. It didn't look inflamed, just bruised. John felt his friend's forehead. A little warm. He would check his flat mate's temperature next time he woke, but for now he would let him sleep. "Thank you," John whispered under his breath. Finally the stubborn git was doing what he should be.

John left his friend in peace and decided that now it would be safe to have a quick wash and refresh for the day. He took one more look at his flatmate before retreating to the bathroom for a quick shave and freshen up. He would keep the door ajar to listen out for the detective waking.

As the doctor disappeared around the corner, crutches clicking quieter, Sherlock's right eye cracked open a centimetre.

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When Lestrade reached Hyde Park Corner Underground station, it was just as he had described back at Baker Street. Utter carnage. It was now just past 8am and it was the height of rush hour now. Angry commuters where crammed into the stairwell down to the station, many shouting and arguing amongst each other, and to top it all off, a light drizzle had started, dampening workers' moods further.

"Excuse me, police!" he exclaimed, trying to part the crowd and make it down into the station.

"Officer, can you please tell me what's going on?" an angry middle aged women with a huge and annoying umbrella tried to stop him in his tracks. "This is simply not on!"

"My apologies, but this is why I am here. For now I would suggest you either take a taxi to your destination or walk to the next tube stop." Lestrade said it reasonably loudly so that those in the vicinity could hear.

"Well, that's unacceptable," the stout woman huffed and grumbled. Many more joined in with her complaining.

The inspector moved on, finally finding his way through the crowds into the ticket hall. Several uniformed officers were already stationed around the place, trying to direct the commuters to their rightful platforms or otherwise.

"What's happening? I was called." He flashed his MET badge to a nearby officer.

"One under, sir." The tall dark skinned PC let him through the barrier.

"So why aren't BTP* clearing it?" Lestrade was half way to the escalators and the constable followed.

"Suspicious circumstances, sir." The PC continued down to the next level with him. "They are reluctant to move the body until the murder investigation team have had a good look. Forensics are here, some are on their way to the other one, along with inspector Dimmock."

"Other one?"

"Yes sir, there is a second apparent suicide down the line at Green Park, on the northbound line. This one's on the southbound." The man pointed to the platform which had clearly been taped off to the public.

Great, Greg thought. Way to make commuters even more angry by shutting not just the line one way but in both directions. This would be spread across the Evening Standard paper by the afternoon as a failure in the transport for London and police in dealing with a major event. Piccadilly Line would need to be closed for a couple of miles at least.

When they arrived on the platform it was mainly empty at one end. A couple of members of the public were being interviewed by officers. The main activity was half way down the platform at the train front which had clearly stopped half way along the station, probably braked hard to miss the jumper. Poor sod, Lestrade thought. He wasn't sure if he felt more sorry for the train driver or the person taking their own life. He never liked attending one of these, and thankfully he rarely did these days.

"Dave Wrightford." An older gentleman wearing petit glasses met him half way to the scene, "British transport police. DI Lestrade, isn't it?"

"Yes." Greg shook his hand. "Suicide?" he asked.

"You would think so, wouldn't you." the man replied. Greg could see the flash of the crime scene camera going off behind him, Forensics already on it then. "The driver said he didn't see anything suspicious until the man appeared on the tracks, but from first glance he looks to have suffered a blow to the head."

"Are you sure it wasn't the train on impact?" Lestrade cringed at the thought. He really didn't want to see the state of the body.

"Definitely not." The police man shook his head, leading the inspector along to the scene. "His legs went under first." He pointed to the corpse. It was a young man from what Greg could make out. His legs were a tangled mess under the front of the train, but the rest of his body seemed to have missed the train. The victim's face was pointing away from him and a large open wound was visible at the base of his skull.

"Knocked it on the lines as he fell?"

"Most certainly not." Mr Wrightford shook his head again. "The wounds are consistent with a small fire arm."

"A gun?"

"It would seem so. The body will need to be looked at in more detail on post mortem but we are pretty certain. No one on the platform remembers seeing or hearing a gun though."

"Silencer," Greg mused. He looked to the body again. Nothing to suggest any other struggle at first look. "What happened to his arm?" Greg noted the large cast on the young man's left arm.

"Broken several weeks ago," the policeman replied, "Simple skateboarding accident by looks of his medical file."

Greg looked again. Poor lad, must have only been early twenties in age. He hated looking at bodies, not the best part of the job, unless you were Sherlock Holmes, that is. Something was making him uneasy about this one, though. Something really wasn't right.

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John dried off his face and looked at himself in the mirror feeling at least a little bit more refreshed. He peeked through the crack in the bathroom door. There hadn't been a sound from the living room. Sherlock had clearly slumbered on, thankfully he was taking a well earned rest. John was determined to get the idiot back on his feet as quickly as he could. They both needed a bit of normality in their lives for once.

He returned to the living room then, a clean change of clothes and a bit more awake. "If you're good Sherlock, I'll get Lestrade to find you some cold cases to look at later," he told the mound of blankets on the sofa. There was no reply.

"Well, at least you're sleeping, it's an important part of healing," John muttered, coming to rest at his chair.

Coming to think of it for moment he couldn't hear the slight rasp of the detectives breath. The living room was still dull, somewhat, the gloomy weather was not helping. "Sherlock?" Silence.

"Sherlock?" John started to panic and headed across the room. His hands came into contact with the blanket but didn't connect with a solid body. Pulling the blanket back he found a number of cushions and what seemed a lifelike wig in the place his flatmate had been only some minutes before. He shot a look across to the coat hook to find the famous Belstaff coat (only just dry cleaned by Mycroft) missing along with the scarf.

"You, utter cock!"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello there my lovely people. Thank you all so much for the reviews, they really make my day so thank you all so so much. I keep meaning to thank you individually. Work has been tiring so I'm doing my best to get some writing down**.

**Many special big thanks to the lovely IO who has proof read my fiction, I will be updating the current chapters very soon. This one has already been proofed for me. I know my grammar isn't fab.**

**For now. Enjoy. Please review and I'll do my best to update as soon as I can.**

**WARNING: A bit of a detailed description of a dismembered body in this chapter. Please skip the paragraph if you don't like. This story will probably be put up to a M rating soon as things will start to get a bit dark.**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes put his head close to that of the body on the underground tracks. Sure enough, the scent of gunpowder hit his olfactory neurones. A suicide on the underground was nothing, in fact it was barely a 3, not worth leaving the house for. But the homeless network were indispensable when it came to up to date information. Two suicides, 20 minutes apart and two stations apart. That was not just chance, balance of probability said it was near impossible and he was right. The first was probably simple chance. The second however, much more interesting and that's where he had headed. John would be furious, but he didn't care. His mind was already doing back flips off the walls.<p>

Dimmock hovered impatiently on the platform above the detective. "Anything?"

Sherlock only mumbled in reply. He thumbed through the corpse's pockets and found a lonely piece of paper. He stashed it into his Belstaff before the inspector had a chance to see it.

"Well?" Inspector Dimmock was getting itchy feet. Crime scene investigators were awaiting his orders, but as usual Sherlock got first helpings with the body.

"Definitely murder," the consultant smiled, "Sneakily done, but not impossible. Shot at close range in the back of the head at a steep angle. The killer had to have been short, approximately 5 foot 4, right handed, small handgun, I'd say with a silencer on, considering the general public are not in a state of panic, then no one saw the gun. Probably didn't hear it over the rumbling of the train coming either. The bullet should be up there." Sherlock pointed upward to the top of the tunnel. "Get your boys to have a look. I'd say a reasonably small calibre, probably a 6 or 7 mil judging by the hole in the back of his skull. Widespread trauma to the occipital lobe and medulla, probably didn't die initially and was pushed or staggered onto the tracks. The train did the rest." The detective looked to the remains of the man, much more gruesome than the Hyde Park Corner victim. The wheels had made contact with the man's torso, ripping flesh open and spilling guts onto the lines below.

"What about him?" Dimmock chose to look away as Sherlock took a closer look at the grisly mess. "Anything about the actual person?"

"Late twenties." The deductions continued at break neck speed. "Happily married, one child. Used to be a banker, now unemployed but coming into the city to meet a friend. Amputee. Shame about the other arm." The consultant pointed to the stump where the remainder of the left arm should be and then to the right where the limb had been traumatically amputated by the train. Something came to Sherlock's memory then, he shook his head to remove the image from his vision. The detective straightened up, the stench of blood starting to get up his nose and swayed violently as a wave of dizziness overcame him.

"You alright?" The inspector looked worried. "Should you even be here? I heard about your little escapade in the river."

"Perfectly fine, thank you." Sherlock accepted the hand from the inspector and climbed up onto the platform, swaying yet again.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Dimmock's concern heightened when he saw the man struggle for a good intake of breath. "You look a bit peaky."

"I said I'm fine," the detective ground out, leaning heavily on the wall for a little support. "Get on with your job and I'll get on with mine."

"Then why him?" Dimmock asked, "Why victimise this man in particular?" The inspector turned his nose up at the bloody scene and beckoned the investigation team to continue on.

"The arm." Sherlock waved over to the scene. "The left arm."

"The missing one?" Dimmock frowned. The detective was looking like he was about to puke his guts up there and then. "I really think I should be calling Doctor Watson. You really don't look well."

"No." The consultant fought the urge to vomit, closing his eyes against the rising bile in his throat.

It was then that Dimmock was handed a radio from one of the underground staff.

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John rang Sherlock straight away. There was no answer, but that was no surprise. Leaving an annoyed message, he then tried Lestrade's mobile. He knew precisely what the detective would be up to, crime solving. His mind was getting bored of sitting around, and he'd almost certainly be going after any interesting case. The phone didn't connect, so John left a babbled message about his flatmate's disappearance and turned the television on for the BBC London news round up at 8.30.

"The Piccadilly Line has been shut down this morning following what seems to be two people going under trains at Hyde Park Corner and Green Park," the presenter said and the screen then showed an animated picture of the underground map, highlighting the affected stations. "The police have yet to give a statement on the matter but it is believed that the two deaths are thought to be suspicious. Police are in contact with families and are likely to give a statement later today. For now the line has been closed in both directions between Hammersmith and Leicester Square, and commuters are urged to find alternate forms of transport."

Bingo, thought John. He knew exactly where that pesky detective was off to. Sherlock couldn't resist a double murder even if he tried. He pulled his own coat off the stand then, leaving it completely bare and collected the antibiotics from the coffee table. Who knew how long they would be out for, but if John had his way the detective would be back in bed within the hour.

He hailed a taxi on Baker Street. The driver seemed in a bit of a hurry, and looked at John suspiciously when he asked to be taken to Hyde Park. As they were rounding onto Park Lane past Marble Arch, John's phone began to ring. He swiped the answer button.

"Lestrade, is Sherlock with you?"

"No." Distant as the voice of the inspector sounded on the end of the line, John could hear the bustle of people in the background. "But I rang Dimmock while I was in the tunnel. He's at the Green Park incident. He said Sherlock turned up there 5 minutes ago, said he wasn't looking too well either."

"That's no surprise." John yelped as the taxi hit a pot hole harder than necessary, jolting his broken leg. The driver looked apologetically in the rear view mirror.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, just jogged my leg that's all," John grimaced. "Listen, meet me outside Green Park. Be there in 5..." he looked out the window of the cab at the oncoming traffic jam, "Make that 10 minutes."

The inspector agreed and hung up. He was up near the station entrance, and looking at the insane traffic, decided against taking the car. He did the zip on his coat up to the top against the now steady rain and hurried along with the crowd towards the second tube station. With any luck Sherlock would be too interested in the crime scene to leave too quickly, but he wasn't holding out on it.

It took John nearly 15 minutes to reach his destination. He thanked the driver kindly, giving him a tip for being so patient in the queues. Lestrade met him a few feet from the cab. Breathless and soaking from the relentless rain, his greying hair was a mess.

"Let's go," he said, turning towards the station entrance. Luckily much of the news had spread amongst the travelling public. The crowds were far more manageable, and John seemed to be able to part some of the people with appearance of himself and his crutches. The doctor was extremely thankful that the station was one of many with disabled access, and while Lestrade took the stairs so as not to miss Sherlock, he took the lift down to the platform level, the two meeting back up at the edge of the police tape.

"Where is he?" John asked, as Dimmock moved the tape to let them through.

"He took off," he replied, "You know what he's like." The inspector looked sheepish. The doctor sagged then.

"He'll turn up John, don't worry. He's probably just got a taxi back to Baker Street." Greg squeezed his friend's arm in comfort.

The walkway this time lead practically straight onto the murder scene rather than down the opposite end. The older inspector took two steps forward and had to swallow hard at the messy sight. "Not a pretty one." Lestrade turned away, not wanting to look at the scene anymore.

John stood on the spot behind him, the packet of antibiotics in his hand. "He's not taken a single one." His voice was distant.

"Okay?" Lestrade furrowed his brows. He couldn't see the relevance for a moment.

"I knew something was wrong, but I didn't see it." John's eyes now looked distant.

"What?"

John's eyes fell on the bloody scene before him and suddenly he was there again. His eyes widened and Lestrade saw it coming this time.

"John?" he tried to rouse his friend. The doctor took in an involuntary shaky breath, his body starting to shake again. "No, no. Mate, not this again." Lestrade guided him backward and onto a platform seat. "Just close your eyes and take a deep breath." Greg held his friend by the shoulders, trying to ground him in the present. He should have known better than to bring the poor man to a messy scene like this so soon after the events of Mary.

John closed his eyes but it was worse.

Her pleading eyes met his. Skin stained with endless amounts of blood. "Please don't watch," she cried. Tears welling in her bloodshot eyes. "Please, John."

He could hear the detective's pained cries from beside him, a struggle, gunfire and sounds of metal on metal. The sight of a severed arm and blood. So, so much blood.

"I love you John," she whispered.

"John, look at me!" Lestrade was shouting in his face when John's eyes cracked open. The inspector was bracing himself for another beating but none came. Instead a trickle of silent tears made it's way down the doctor's cheeks. "John, you're here, with me. It's okay."

"She's gone," he said quietly.

"I know," Lestrade said sadly. "I know. I'm sorry."

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Sherlock staggered out of the station and into the pouring November rain. He was going to be sick, and, why was he so damn cold? A gust of wind caused the detective to shiver uncontrollably. He carried on into the park. He needed to find shelter and somewhere to read the letter. Somewhere away from the crowds and the chance of being caught up with by the detective inspector. Lestrade would surely be onto him by now. He'd go home once he'd sorted this, that way John would be less angry.

He managed it into the main park area and onto a bench tucked away, hidden behind a couple of trees. Unfortunately, the lack of leaves gave little protection from the rain. He pulled his collar up against the damp and started to shiver again. Why was he so cold? His coat would keep him warm enough against even the coldest of winters. He grunted in frustration at his useless transport and removed the envelope addressed to him from his coat pocket, shielding it from the weather. He carefully pulled the seal apart and removed the small sheet of paper from within and read it.

_You will burn, Sherlock Holmes._

_Moran_.

Sherlock frowned at words. So Moran was not finished with his revenge just yet. The detective shivered more at the thought of their last meeting. Mary's ending.

The consultant stuffed the paper back inside his jacket angrily, taking a look at his now shuddering hands. His neck was starting to feel hot and moist, but he was still frozen. He growled at both problems like an angry dog and pulled his right hand to make a fist. Bloody transport. He pulled out his phone, tapping a quick message to his flat mate. 'Meet me in Green Park. SH.' His palms were slick with rainwater and sweat, so much so that the phone slipped from his grasp, clattering to the wet, muddy earth below.

"Damn." He bent down to retrieve it and the world tilted sideways. A bit not good then. Spots danced across his blurred vision.

"Bloody transport," he grumbled out loud this time. And the phone slipped again from his clearly weakened grasp. Bending a second time, he didn't make it back up this time. His knees hit the earth below and he swayed again. The detective's vision blurred somewhat more, before finally ceasing all together. He toppled forward, landing face forward in the grass.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello there! Chapter 10 up, a little more explanation in the way. The flashback is in italics. Many thanks again to IO for being my beta. **

**Enjoy. Let me know what you think.**

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><p>"John, I really think I should get you home." Greg held the doctor steady as he stood back up on his crutches shakily. "Let's get a cab."<p>

"No," John shot him a sullen look, "we need to find Sherlock." He managed to control his quivering voice back to normal and wiped the saltwater from his cheeks. He wished that there were less people in vicinity. Both Lestrade and Dimmock were giving him that look. "If he's not taken a single one of these antibiotics, I'd hazard a guess that he's going to be harbouring himself a nasty infection by now, at least a raging fever." He tried to push on with the now, rather than linger on what just happened.

"John, you can't continue like this. Please let me get you home." Greg squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I'll get the boys onto looking for him."

"You know they won't find him," the doctor sighed.

"And you think you can?" Dimmock this time.

"I have a pretty good idea of where he likes to run off to." John started forward, turning away from the bloody crime scene and back towards the door. Lestrade followed him, stopping at Dimmock before leaving.

"Make sure you send both bodies over to Bart's for the attention of Molly Hooper."

Greg nearly didn't make the lift when catching up with the blogger. John was on a mission. Clearly the doctor was more than a little worried about the detective. Silence followed their quick return to the ground level. John was tense, the inspector had seen it enough times. How Sherlock hadn't sent his poor friend into a heart attack, he didn't know.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade finally spoke up as they made their way into the daylight and the main road.

John didn't answer immediately. He stopped, scanning his phone. "In the park." He held up the screen briefly, but not long enough for the inspector to read it. "See, sometimes he does let us know where he is. Although, I'm going to kick his sorry ass when I find him." John's fists clenched tightly. He didn't wait for Lestrade to answer and hurried out into the now steady rain.

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_Sherlock's head was pounding. The cold stone floor where it was laying really didn't do anything for the thumping within it. Head injuries really were rather annoying, especially when they included a glancing bullet to the skull. The right side of his head was slick with crimson, and his ear was itchy from the sticky covering beginning to congeal. How had he fallen so easily for the trap? He knew Moran had John and Mary, but he'd managed to put himself at unnecessary risk because of it. Caring was not an advantage, and in this case it really did prove true. Perhaps the detective really had gone soft. He would never live it down with Mycroft if he made it out of this alive._

_"Sherlock?" John's drugged voice pierced the detective's agonising headache. The doctor was still bound to the chair next to where the detective had fallen and not moved since. "Oh God, please, not you too."_

_The detective only groaned in response, eyes opening cracks to let in what little light surrounded them in the tunnel. The sound of running, rushing water started to reach the consultant's ears as he began to regain more consciousness. Fragments of what had just happened started to filter into his mind palace. Mary's demise. He screwed his eyes shut at the thought, pushing it far from his visual cortex. But then, as the feeling of cold water met his cheek and hands, and started to leak through his clothes, his mind recalled the important facts. John. Flooding tunnel. Get out. His eyes snapped open._

_"John," Sherlock gurgled. The water level was already up to his mouth, and almost his nose. "Get out, we need to get out."_

_The detective screwed his eyes shut and furrowed his brows against the superficial pain of his scalp. He pulled himself onto all fours, water now rising quickly. The inlet at the end of the room was increasing in flow, the water gushing with a roar. With a cry of agony against his fractured ribs he pulled himself upright and staggered to his best friend._

_"We have to go." The consultant leant heavily on the chair._

_"I can't leave her." John's words were almost inaudible over the water flow, which was now reaching level with the detective's ankles._

_"We have to go now." Sherlock shook his head, trying to help himself see straight better. He grappled uselessly at the restraints on his flatmate's wrists and looked back to where the machete he had used once lay, now covered in swirling water._

_"Just leave me."_

_If it was possible, Sherlock's heart broke at those three words. John's voice was broken and defeated. The doctor's eyes did not break the stare from his now deceased wife. The detective staggered back to where he had once lain himself, and grabbed haphazardly under the water. His hand connected with the blade and he ignored the sharp sting as it sliced into his palm. Racing back to the doctor, the waterline was at his knees now, almost waist height for the doctor bound in the chair. Sherlock cut the bindings on both legs with ease, taking his utmost care to not catch the already bruised skin of his friend's ankles._

_"I'm staying here." It was emotionless, dead._

_Sherlock ignored the comment. Slashing the rope in one cut, he freed both John's arms. The doctor made no effort whatsoever to move, his sullen silent stare remained forwards even as the flood now surpassed his waist and started to rise at an alarming rate. The detective knew it would be difficult for his friend to walk in his state but didn't really think through having to carry him._

_"Let's go." Sherlock pulled John up by the arms, ignoring the torturous pain it caused his ribs._

_"No." John tried to resist, almost falling face first into the raging water which was now swirling in endless eddies around them._

_"Yes." Sherlock pulled him again, this time under the arms. In one swift motion he lifted John up and onto his shoulder, biting his lip to restrain a cry of pain, so hard it drew blood. He turned and took one more look at the woman who had saved him in more ways than one, and not long ago, saved London itself. He silently thanked her and apologised in one, before turning away from the body._

_The water was now at chest level, rising at impressive speed. The escape shaft was some yards down the tunnel. Sherlock could barely make it out in the dull light and the spray of foaming tide. He pushed on, water threatening to wrench his feet from under him. John did not resist, and as the water reached towards the top of the detective's chest, he let his friend down and started to drag him along in the flow._

_"Hold on, John," Sherlock's grip remained steadfast across the doctor's wrist. This was one time being handcuffed together might have actually proved useful. As the water reached his neck, the flow took his feet from under him, into the stormy torrents and angry whirlpools. The two went under, swept into the speeding, relentless flow and away._

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Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, breathing fast and shallow against the memory. His cheek was pressed into the soggy grass, and for a moment he thought he was there again, back in the tunnel, with John with Mary. A pair of brown eyes came into focus then and then disappeared from his fuzzy, blurred vision.

"Who is you?" The detective struggled with the muddled words, his mind palace cursing his sluggish speech.

"Drunk, are ya?" The dirty face moved closer to the consultant and Sherlock rolled himself over, pulling himself weakly upright. Bending his knees so that he was now sat on them, the mud was soaking into his skin.

"What?" The late reply came, the world spun around him, and for several moments he was sure that there was more than just one man before him.

"Got any gear, matey?" Yellow teeth smiled and Sherlock gagged at the rotting aroma that met him. The man was a foot from the detective's face, and the younger of the two started to shiver again. Rain had penetrated the unruly curls, and water was starting to run in rivulets down his flushed, hot cheeks.

"Well?" The homeless man, who was clearly not part of Sherlock's network, bent closer, and the detective tried to bat his hands forward. He swayed again. His stomach convulsed at the movement but he didn't vomit. "Well, have ya?"

"Clean!" Sherlock slurred, breathless. "Promised. I'm clean."

"Oh well." The tramp's grime covered hands grabbed at the detective's coat, rummaging in the pockets. He removed the iPhone, wallet, and magnifier, throwing the latter on the grass. Sherlock hadn't the energy to fight anymore. His eyes rolled and fluttered, and he shook with renewed vigour, both arms lax at his sides and hardly able to remain upright.

"This will do." The homeless man pulled out the wad of notes in the wallet and stared at them.

"Excuse me?" The man turned at the sudden voice behind him, and a fist collided with his nose sending him several feet across the grass, out cold.

"John!" A breathless Inspector Lestrade came tearing around the small copse of trees to catch up, clearly seeing the entire scene.

"John," Sherlock's weak voice echoed the inspector, "Nice to see you."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: chapter 11 for all my lovely people! Many many thanks for followers and reviews. Do enjoy, and click that lovely review button. : )**

**Many thanks to IO for the beta once again! **

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><p>A light knock sounded on the door of 221 and Lestrade raced down the stairs to answer it. He cautiously opened it a crack and finally wider when he noticed the agent on the pathway.<p>

"Delivery from Mycroft Holmes," he said, holding forth a huge and what looked to be heavy bag.

The inspector took the bag without question, struggling with its weight. He thanked the man before rushing back upstairs to 221B. John had planted himself next to Sherlock's bed since they had returned home with him only a couple of hours ago. Sherlock had been barely conscious on their little journey back to the flat, but they had managed to get him into his bed this time, rather than the sofa. When Greg returned upstairs, John was re-soaking the towels, and placing them back onto the shivering torso of the detective.

"I hope it's all there." Lestrade placed the bag at John's feet. The doctor opened it quickly, rummaging inside to find all the equipment he had asked for. "How's he doing?"

"Temperature is still raging. I don't care what Mycroft says. If I can't get this fever under control tonight, then we're taking him to hospital regardless."

"Agreed." Greg sat in the second chair which had been moved into the room. He looked over the detective. He was naked from the waist up, and shivering uncontrollably. His chest heaving, every breath the man made seemed to take double the effort it should. John had rambled on about him having pneumonia, but Greg wasn't really listening enough. "Need a hand with anything?" he finally asked the blogger.

John shook his head. He was fully in doctor mode. The oxygen was back on his flatmate's face. He had placed a new cylinder on the line so it wouldn't run out during the day. Greg watched him work with a little amazement for the man. He'd never had the grades in school to pursue anything like medicine, and he always had admiration for those who did. Even sitting down, John worked with ease and precision, fitting his best friend with a fresh, new intravenous catheter. Sherlock protested from somewhere within his consciousness but was clearly far too out of it from the fever to bother completely. A line of cool fluids ran into the man's veins. Greg then watched as John prepared several glass vials with drugs - he was guessing some form of antibiotics. All of these were drawn up and delivered into the fluid line, and into the detective.

"Now we wait," John sighed, pulling off his examination gloves and dumping them in the small bin he had made for medical supplies.

"Fancy a drink?" Greg stood and headed towards the kitchen. John only nodded in agreement, and soon a warm cup of coffee made it into the doctor's hands.

Both the inspector and the doctor sat for many minutes in silence. Nothing but the sounds of oxygen whooshing and quiet whirring of a fluid pump kept the room from its steely feel. Greg watched the minutes tick by on his watch and counted at least five before he couldn't stand it anymore.

"What happened John?"

The doctor looked up to his friend. The last time he remembered hearing those lines were years ago, following something he didn't want to relive. The only difference was that someone different was now dead. He took a shuddering intake and tried to remain calm. "Not now. Please."

"Yes, now." Greg moved his chair a little bit closer, and placed his empty mug onto the floor. "You can't keep skipping over this one. I know little of what happened that night. Sherlock has gone mute about it and you're clearly suffering flashbacks."

"It doesn't matter," John waved a hand and looked back at Sherlock. The detective had settled into a feverish sleep.

"It does," Lestrade answered back. "You need to talk about this. If it's not with me then it should be with someone. I know you're not in contact with your therapist anymore and I'm pretty certain you won't be talking to Sherlock about it, let alone your sister."

"I can't. It's my fault Greg. I couldn't save her. She died, because I couldn't save her. And then I nearly killed him," the doctor's voice wobbled off its usual tone. John looked to his friend. The scar from the old wound was no longer visible, but he knew it was still there, under the ruffled curly hair line.

"You know that's not true," Lestrade said sadly. "It was a hostage situation."

"How much do you know already?"

"Only what I got out of Sherlock before he went missing. He came to Scotland Yard in a state. He told me he was sure you and Mary had been kidnapped. He told me you'd last been seen leaving Baker Street, and that all the signs pointed to you being taken. God, I didn't even believe him for a moment. You know what Sherlock's like for putting on emotion, making out he's upset just to get his own way. I honestly thought he was trying it on. Eventually, I was contacted not long after by Mycroft. His team was onto it, but no leads had been found, except that you and Mary had been dragged away in a dark green van, in broad daylight, in the west end. The vehicle had disappeared off the radar."

Greg looked up to see a small track of tears heading south down John's cheeks. "It was her birthday that week. I was treating her to a night out and a show."

"But you never made it." The inspector looked sadly on. The doctor shook his head, hastily wiping away the moisture and rubbing at his eyes. "We never made any progress" he continued on, determined to get this out of the doctor. "And then of course, Sherlock disappeared completely. I thought he'd gone AWOL. It wouldn't have been the first time."

"He's good at disappearing," John looked to his sleeping friend with affection. "Sometimes I wish I could disappear as well as he can."

Greg thought of all the times the detective had disappeared in the years that he had known him, and none had proved to be a good thing. "No you don't," he finally said, after his thoughtful pause. The inspector pushed on, "I didn't have a clue where any of you were, until I got a garbled text from Sherlock. Told me to come and find you in Greenwich. He hadn't stated where. In fact, it was complete coincidence that I even found the pair of you." Greg thought back to the night we had had finally found the pair of them with a feeling of dread.

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><p>THREE MONTHS PREVIOUSLY<p>

Greg had all the windows drawn down on his BMW. The hot summer's day was still sticking to the air, making it humid and close. It was still only just getting dark, even at past 9pm. He had driven like a bat out of hell when he'd received the text from Sherlock. The message had hardly made any sense, but from the few words, and a process of elimination, the inspector had worked out it what it said. 'Greenwich, found them. Come quickly.'

Now that he was in the area, he was at a loss. Since crossing the river he had slowed his car down to well below the speed limit. Drivers behind him were getting angry, but he didn't care. He pulled up by the park, sending the briefest of messages to Mycroft. If anyone would find the three of them, then he could. Greenwich was vast, he wasn't sure exactly where to be looking. He'd already been past Emirates Air, where Sherlock's last known location had been, but there had been no sign. Finally, after some minutes of driving further south, he found a marked police car and flagged it down.

He flashed his ID, not recognising the officers. "Inspector Lestrade. I'm looking for three friends of mine. Missing, assumed kidnapped."

The two officers looked at him oddly, as if he was out of his mind. "Not seen anything odd about," the driver said. "Not long been on patrol."

"Thanks," Lestrade said a little too shortly. "If you see or hear anything, please let me know. Anything." He sounded desperate now. They probably thought he was crazy. He passed the two a business card with his mobile number on it, and started to head back to his car.

"There was one thing," the younger of the officers, who must have been barely mid 20's shouted across to him, and Greg stopped to listen. "Batty old drunk lady told us she'd seen two men come out the ground. We had a look, but there was no one there fitting her drunk description."

"And what was the description?"

The officer looked a bit put out. "I'm not sure I believe her. She was out of her mind."

"What was the description?" Lestrade repeated, and was two steps back to the marked car.

"Two men, middle aged. One tall, black hair, the other short. She told me they were shouting. We went around, but saw nothing. No sign."

The inspector knew exactly who the woman had described. "Where?"

"The High Road." The young man pointed, but Lestrade was already back to his car, starting it and slamming it into gear. He set the blue lights running, and screeched off down the road, leaving both men looking perplexed.

The BMW screeched onto the main road, causing pedestrians to stare and gawp at Lestrade behind the wheel. The inspector flicked on his intercom and shouted into it before the operator on the other end had a chance to answer, "I need back up on Greenwich High Road! Two men escaped kidnapping. May need medics too." He slammed the receiver down, eyes scanning the sides of the road. It was only by coincidence that he even saw one of them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall figure stagger across a side road. He spun the car around, nearly hitting the number 177 bus. Leaving the car half on the pavement, he jumped out of the door, and back to the side road.

Egerton Drive was free from the pedestrian traffic of the main road, but in the dull dusk he could make out two figures just ahead. He knew it was John and Sherlock before he reached them.

"Calm down John, please," Sherlock's hands were out in front of him, held in defeat and surrender.

Greg could see that both men were dripping wet. There were long trails of puddles, which went across the road several times in a crisscross manner. Both were wearing little for clothes. John's tattered t-shirt was ripped in several places, exposing what looked like bruised and bloodied skin beneath, but Greg was more worried about his state of mind. The doctor's eyes were wild, like nothing the inspector had ever seen before. Before he could reach the pair, the older man threw a heavy punch into the detective's abdomen. Sherlock doubled over and teetered backwards, but he didn't fall.

"John..." Sherlock cried through gritted teeth, "I'm sorry."

The exclamation was only received with another thump, this time to the ribs. And this time Sherlock did go down, writhing in pain on the pavement.

"John!" Greg was on him now. Whipping out the handcuffs, he clicked one of the doctor's wrists into them. The blogger spun around, but Greg ducked the blow and quickly pulled the second hand into the cuffs. He suddenly realised that both of the man's wrists were oozing with blood, where he had clearly been bound before.

"John," Lestrade tried to pull towards him and away from Sherlock, with difficulty. "Where's Mary?" Greg could see that the two uniformed officers he had spoken to moments ago had arrived as back up, blocked the street and were on their way to him.

"Maybe Sherlock can explain that one to you!" John shouted down at the concrete where the detective was gaining his shaky footing. "Besides. It's your fault she's dead!"

"John..." The consultant tried to speak again, but he didn't get a chance. Taking two steps out of Lestrade's grasp John planted a powerful head butt to the centre of his friend's head. Sherlock's face went slack, and he crumpled to the ground again, but made no sound this time. Greg watched then in complete horror, as the detective started to shake, his head and back arched, and he started to seize.

"Call an ambulance now." The inspector pushed the doctor toward the oncoming constables and fell to his knees beside Sherlock. He gently placed a hand either side of the man's head as he started to convulse more violently, legs kicking out. It was then that Greg noticed he was shoeless. The detective's teeth chattered and clamped together, and his head somehow twisted further backward in Greg's grasp. He pulled one hand away to grab his phone and found it slick with blood. "Jesus, Sherlock!" he stared at the writhing man in his arms, "What the fuck happened?"


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Hello all. Thanks for all your patience. I have been on night shifts this weekend so been a little slower. Thanks again to IO for all the lovely suggestions and correcting my silly mistakes I make when my brain is working faster than my fingers can type.**

**Enjoy.**

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><p>Sherlock cracked his bleary eyes open to take in his surroundings. This waking up in new places was becoming boring, but at least this time the smells and surrounding area were familiar. The room was darkened, clearly night, and for a moment he panicked when he couldn't see properly. A small jolt of adrenaline made his pulse rise somewhat. At least he wasn't in hospital again, Mycroft had kept his word. A small, soft sound of someone snoring could be heard from beside him, and upon finally turning his aching head he found, not John, but Inspector Lestrade. Greg's arms were crossed tightly across his chest and his chin was resting on them. He was sound asleep and didn't look comfortable.<p>

"Geoff" The detective's mouth felt dry, and he smacked his lips together in frustration at their uselessness. He spotted a small glass of water next to the inspector on the bedside table. He grabbed haphazardly with his shaky hand, but missed the receptacle completely. His arm felt like a dead weight and his wobbling hand was clueless as to what he was trying to achieve. He tried again, this time knocking the glass clean over and onto the inspector's lap.

Greg nearly hit the ceiling. He shot upward in his chair and pranced across the room. "Christ, what the..."

His weary eyes then finally came to rest on Sherlock. "You're awake!" he exclaimed, forgetting that his trousers were soaked through with freezing water.

"It would seem so, yes," the detective answered, trying to pull himself up.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade rushed forward ready to stop him from trying to vacate the bed.

"I'm thirsty," Sherlock grumbled. His tongue felt thick and sluggish. "And much to my disgust, my transport needs relieving."

Greg looked slightly embarrassed and didn't answer for a moment. "Let me at least take your temperature first?"

"Why?

"Because John has been insisting on taking it hourly. He said he thought your fever was breaking but told me to take your temperature often. I must have nodded off."

Sherlock only huffed in response. He swung his legs to the side of the bed, but did not get up. "Fine, whatever."

"Thank you." The inspector stepped forward. Retrieving the thermometer from the medical bag, he took the detective's temperature. The doctor had been supplied with an ear probe, rather than the annoying type that had to be left in the mouth. The machine beeped within seconds. Lestrade looked at the reading.

"Well?"

"He was right, your fever has gone down considerably. Only 38 degrees now, thank God." Greg put the machine away and held a hand out for the detective. Sherlock had already removed the oxygen tubing in annoyance, and was now working on the intravenous catheter with his plastered arm.

"Please don't pull that out," Greg batted his hand off. "Do you know how to disconnect it?"

The consultant only mumbled in response, but managed to disconnect the fluids with ease. Now free from all restraints, the detective rose shakily to his feet. Lestrade held him steady for a moment, until he finally found his footing and started forward.

"Need a hand?" The inspector felt himself blush red.

"No thank you." Sherlock left him by the bathroom door and shut it behind him. Greg returned to the bedroom. Collecting the glass, he made his was to the kitchen to refill it with fresh water. He glanced to John across the living room on the sofa, clearly still asleep and thankfully not woken by any of the commotion. It was nearly 4am. Perhaps the man might get in a half decent stint of sleeping finally?

By the time the inspector had filled the glass and tiptoed back into the bedroom, the bathroom door reopened and Sherlock tottered out, minus his IV catheter.

"I told you to leave that in," Greg pointed to the already bruising hand.

"I don't need it," Sherlock grumbled, pushing past him to get to the living room.

"Oh, no you don't." Lestrade steered him in the opposite direction and the detective tried to shrug his hands off. He hated being touched. "Back to bed right now. And yes, you do need that, John said you need intravenous antibiotics to fight off your infection."

"What does John care about it?" Sherlock snarled. He found his way back to bed and was spent by the time he reached it.

"You know he does. Slow..." Lestrade warned, passing his friend the glass of water, and watching as Sherlock tipped it up.

Too late, the glass' contents disappeared in seconds, but this fact was immediately regretted, judging by the look of green on the detective's face.

"I just said, 'Slowly.'"

Sherlock glared back in response. "What does it matter?" he sighed. "Just transport."

"Not just transport mate, you need to take it easy. No gallivanting across the capital for the fun of a little mystery for a bit. Your so-called transport can't take much more of this."

"So?"

Lestrade bit his lip to restrain his irritation. "So. You'll wind up in hospital again. And this time, you might not be waking up," he warned.

"And why does that matter?" Sherlock screwed his face into a confused look.

"Because we all care about you." Lestrade ran a hand awkwardly though his greying hair.

"And why would you bother with sentiment like that?" Sherlock swung his legs back into the bed and pulled the covers up to hide his bare torso.

The inspector exhaled loudly, deciding to sit down in the chair by the bed. "We're all concerned about you," he said finally. "John's worried sick."

"No, he isn't." Sherlock wrinkled his nose up.

"Is this about when you woke in hospital?" Lestrade tried to get somewhere but the detective didn't answer, so he continued. "Sherlock, he'd just lost his wife, and nearly lost you. Again, I might add."

Silence.

Sherlock itched the scar tissue on the side of his head, and both men thought back to when the detective had woken up after the events of Mary, not too dissimilar from just now.

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><p>THREE MONTHS PREVIOUSLY<p>

Sherlock felt his eyes slit open. His head was pounding so loudly in his ears he couldn't make out any other noise around himself. The blinding strip lights filtered into his left eye, but his right refused to work. Great, that was something he would have to address later. His throat was sore, in fact so sore he was sure he could feel something foreign sticking to it uncomfortably. He tried to close his mouth but his teeth came into contact with the endotracheal tube. That would need to come out. The detective tried to move his uncoordinated arms but failed. His right arm flapped awkwardly and a yelp of surprise sounded suddenly to his right when his hand collided with something solid.

"What the?" Greg stood up quickly, almost knocking the plastic chair over. "Sherlock," he exclaimed. "You're awake!"

The inspector bent over the younger man and the detective finally was able to see him. Sherlock furrowed his brows and continued to miserably try to remove his medical equipment.

"Take it easy, mate," Greg squeezed his friend's arm. "I'll get the doctor to sort you out, just try to stay calm."

Sherlock realised that the inspector must have pressed the assistance alarm, as within what seemed like only seconds both a doctor and a nurse were bending over him, babbling in his face. The consultant didn't really hear what they were saying, his head was aching too much. But he did hear a few muffed words.

"I need you to cough, Mr. Holmes. This may be a little uncomfortable."

The tube disappeared from his throat, and the detective let out an almighty coughing fit, much to the aggravation of the agonising pain within his skull. After what seemed like forever, his throat settled and finally he was calm. Well, as calm as he could be in the situation.

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Holmes?" The doctor was in his face, shining an annoying light in his left eye, probably his right too, but he couldn't make it out. Sherlock didn't answer, he struggled with the concept of what had just happened. He didn't even remember the reason why he was in the hospital bed in the first place, but there was one thing he did want to know.

"Where's John?" he croaked out, barely audible.

Lestrade pulled a face which seemed unreadable to Sherlock. The inspector turned to the nurse. "His best friend," he said quietly. The lady gave a meaningful nod.

"He's not here right now." Greg finally turned to a very baffled looking detective who was now finally finding his arms to be more coordinated. He was prodding with confusion at the thick bandaging around his head, and then at his heavily bruised right eye. Sherlock's thoughts were beginning to fit together, but he still felt extremely muddled. "I'm sure he'll be here soon enough." The consultant could hear the dishonesty in the statement.

"Where is he?" he asked, with a bit more strength behind the words.

The inspector paused and took a moment to decide what to say, trying carefully to avoid upsetting the man before him. He finally decided to come out with the truth, no point in trying to hide deductions from the detective. "I haven't seen him in 5 days, Sherlock. He won't answer any of my calls, or texts."

Sherlock made a silent, "Oh," with his mouth. He scratched at the edge of the bandage, itching it in frustration and against the pain underneath somewhere. "Why haven't I seen him for 5 days, I don't understand?"

They all frowned at him then, and he hated it. What was he missing? He didn't understand. Why couldn't they just explain why he was here, and where John was, and why his head ached this much, and why they kept pulling on his arms, and shining lights at him?

"You've been in a coma for 5 days, Mr. Holmes," the doctor said. "Do you remember what happened?"

Sherlock tried with difficulty to think, but it hurt. "No."

"You took a blow to the head, after you received a glancing bullet to your skull." The doctor picked up the hospital chart and began scribbling while explaining, "I'm afraid you suffered a huge brain haemorrhage due to the injury, and we had to intervene surgically. You had quite a rocky recovery. You've been in an induced coma for a couple of days, the rest of the time you stayed asleep yourself. I'm afraid we do not know whether there will be any lasting damage or not. Do you have any trouble seeing?" The doctor waved a finger in front of the detective.

"No." Sherlock lied. "Now would you kindly leave me alone?" he snarled.

"Well, at least you're still there," Lestrade crossed his arms and sat back down in the chair with a huff. "Don't expect to get much out of him," he added.

"Where's John?" the detective asked again, forgetting he had already done so.

Greg was frank this time, "He's missing Sherlock. I don't know where he is."

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, taking in the information and trying to process it. He did not answer any more of the doctor's questions. In fact, he did not speak a single word, for the next seven days.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hello there. Many many apologise for this late update. This is currently unbeta'd for now. Once I get it sorted it will be updated. For now it's a very short chapter but do enjoy and hit the review button. Half the next chapter already written so update soon.**

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><p>John listened to the hushed voices coming from the bedroom around the corner. He'd been asleep for sometime, but the first cracks of light entering the flat brought him back round to the land of the living. He'd heard enough of his flat mates tone to tell him exactly what mood he was in and decided it best to stay away. It was nearly an hour later when Greg made his way into the kitchen to find the doctor awake and sitting up.<p>

"I was hoping you'd sleep a bit longer." The inspector sighed and looked to his watch. He rummaged in the fridge now stocked with a small selection of food.

"Not tired." John answered, stretching as best he could. His leg was itching under the cast and it took all will power to to scratch wildly at the edges of the thing.

"We both know that's a lie." Greg finally pulled out a bag of crisps from one of the cupboards, choosing not to have anything from the fridge. He started to crunch into them. The sound annoyed the doctor. "Why don't you take a nap in your own bed."

"No."

"It's only half 6 mate. You could still catch a few more hours yet."

"I said no." John's tone was final and Lestrade decided to leave it there for now. He switched the kettle on to boil, finishing his measly portion of crisps he squirrelled himself away into the bathroom for a quick shower. He knew he would be called into work at some point today what with all of yesterday's shenanigans. In fact he was hoping now that the detective was making more sense he would perhaps shed some light on the situation.

Once the inspector had disappeared into the bathroom John hauled himself up on his crutches and crossed the room. He waited patiently for the full kettle to come to a boil and poured himself a large and strong coffee to bring himself to a more awake state. When he'd finally situated himself back across the room in his chair with difficulty another familiar face appeared in the doorway.

"You should be in bed." The doctor barely glanced to his friend, he turned his attention back to the TV remote and chose to turn the box on.

"So everyone insists on telling me." Sherlock's voice was still lacking strength but it was most defiantly better than the night before.

"Then perhaps you should listen."

"I'm not a child." Sherlock snarled angrily. He left the remains of the drink he was making and cut across the room flopping into the sofa and curling his legs up.

The room fell into silence, save the news readers voice quietly continuing on in the background on the tele. The detective let out a long drawn breath and rested his head on his knees. John could see he still looked washed out, but the colour was returning to his face and he seemed to be breathing easier than 24 hours ago, hopefully he was over the worst of it now. The doctor angrily noticed the IV catheter had been unceremoniously ripped out yet again, it was no wonder the man had horrendous veins, with that and the drug taking. John shuddered at the latter.

The doctor ignored his flat mate then and decided to keep his attention on the news. There was little to report today, the usual Middle East stories reminding him of his time in Afghanistan, a small report followed up on yesterday's murders but the police had yet to issue a statement, a school girl missing, some residence campaigning against a new road construction and man dying in a house fire. Did the news ever have anything nice on it? John changed the programme, his feeling not getting any better at the morbid news channel.

"Still not talking I see." Greg's voice cut the rooms feeling and John looked up to see him in the middle of the pair of them, hair still wet from his recent shower.

"Who said anything about not talking?" John shrugged.

Lestrade looked to the detective.

"My fault?" Sherlock huffed. "Why is it my fault now, what did I do?"

"Oh I don't know." Greg turned to him. "Went gallivanting across the capital until you passed out from your fever."

"That's hardly my fault is it?" The deceive let his feet down and then frowned towards the other man. "Why am I to blame for being unwell?"

"It's your fault you fell in the river." John cut in. "If you'd just waited for back up. I don't even understand how he managed to have you Sherlock. Your quicker than that."

The pregnant pause followed the small outburst until finally the consultant answered very quietly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me?" John shot.

"Your not stupid John, use your deductive skills I taught you. It's not hard."

This stumped the doctor somewhat, Sherlock rarely spun the deductions around for the doctor to work things out for himself. To be fair John saw little of the fight on the bridge himself, too many punches had been thrown in the frenzy. The detective was a skilled boxer and John was surprised he'd lost this one but he couldn't put his finger as to why he had.

"I don't know." John finally said after some minutes of trying to work it out. "Enlighten me."

Sherlock pointed to the right side of his head. "Blow to the right side of the face." He said through almost clenched teeth.

"You were hit across the cheek from what I saw, this has nothing to do with your old injury so don't even bring it into the mix." John's face was beginning to turn redder.

"Doesn't it." Sherlock looked over to him sadly. "I think you know why I missed the fist, I just think your trying to bury it along with everything else."

"You didn't see it coming." The inspector hit the nail on the head. The doctors face drained of the red shade within seconds and he stared more intently to his flat mate.

"Well done Lestrade." Sherlock said. "At least someone's paying attention."

"You can't be blind." John's face contorted with pain. "You just took a blow to the head before we fort on the street. You were perfectly fine..."

"A bullet."

"What?" The doctor cried.

"I took a bullet to the skull John. It was meant for Mary but it glanced the edge of my head. Unfortunately it nicked one of the main vessels when it hit. Only a small bleed, but was exacerbated by the punch you threw my way later, which in turn caused massive haemorrhage. The optic nerve was damaged in the process. I'm not fully blind, just partially, but my peripheral vision is next to nothing now."

John felt his mouth agape and snapped it shut quickly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wasn't important." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "It doesn't matter. Lestrade said something about you having time to grieve anyway. The reason why you weren't at the hospital for a while."

"Did you know about this?" John pointed his finger at the inspector in the middle of the room who now looked a little lost and out of place.

"No, not a clue." Greg put his hands up in the air. "God, if I knew, don't you think I would have told you by now?"

"I'm not an invalid." Sherlock replied. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself thank you very much."

"I'm sorry." John finally said, his voice sounded hoarse with raw emotion. "I thought..." He put his head in his hands. "I though Moran had just hit you. I didn't realise that he'd shot you, I thought he'd only shot her." The doctors voice broke at the last word. "How could I be so bloody blind to it."

"What happened." Sherlock asked. "Before I got there. What did he do?"

John shook his head. He was teetering on the edge of panic. He didn't want to remember what happened, but he knew he had to.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hello all. Quick update for all those who waited patiently for the previous chapter. This is an account of when John/Mary had been captured. Please note that for now this is unbeta'd until further notice. And that this chapter has a RATING OF M as there is some descriptions of physical injuries and torture. If you don't like please don't read. But if you do please let me know what you think, I found bits of this chapter tough to write. Enjoy...**

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><p>THREE MONTHS PREVIOUSLY<p>

John head was pounding with terrible force. The smell of damp and blood met his nose as he cracked his eyes open to the darkened room. "Mary..." Was the first word he found as he started to come around more. As his sight adjusted to the low light he finally saw her opposite in what was probably a similar state to what he was in himself.

Mary was sat awkwardly in a metal chair her legs bound at the ankles to the legs of it. Her arms were pulled behind her back much in the same way John had his, and he could only guess they were bound at the wrists like him. She wore a sad and strange look to her features, one that the doctor had never seen before. "I'm here." She whispered softly.

"Mary." He said again, lost for words somewhat. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." She said, sadly. "Don't worry about me." Her eyes were bloodshot from tears both fallen and unfallen.

"Ah, the doctors awake. Finally." A happy chirpy voice sounded from behind John and a mans face came into his view. "Thought you were never going to wake up." He rolled his eyes.

John recognised him, but his brain could not place it. "I know you don't I?" John's voice was a bit off, he struggled to hold it together.

"Colonel Moran." The man smiled gleefully. "Finally I get to meet the famous doctor Watson." He joked.

"Moriarty's right hand man." John replied.

"Former." Moran corrected.

"Oh yes." John smiled back, even in the situation he could not help but smile at the thought of Moriarty's demise. "Of course. Blown to bits if I remember rightly."

"All by your beautiful wife here." Moran stepped forward and swept a hand over Mary's face, she closed her eyes in disgust. "She's quite a shot isn't she, your assassin wife."

"Get your hands off her!" John bellowed and he heard his voice echo back at him making him realise just how vast the room they were in was. "I swear to God, if you so much as put another finger on her I'll rip you to shreds."

"I only need one finger, my dear." The mans slimy words sounded just like Moriarty's then, with a slight Irish lilt added into the mix. He pushed one skeletal finger roughly into Mary's cheek and she tried to turn away. Sebastian then pulled his hand back, licking his finger he then brought it across her lips slowly.

"No." John struggled in his chair, his bounds only rubbing further into his sore red skin. "Please... No!"

"Oh don't worry." Moran turned his head to the doctor but kept the rest of him facing Mary. Tears were silently streaming down her cheeks. "I'm sure your little keeper will be here in no time, I heard he's getting close."

Mary drew a shaky breath looking to her husband. "Please John. Don't watch."

John screamed.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Sherlock jolted awake, the residue of anaesthetic was still in his nose and he sniffed and coughed at the feeling. After a beat the detective tried to ascertain what had happened and were about's he was. His head was fuzzy with the drug but he was coming round quickly enough. Judging by the feeling of the floor and the motion around him he deduced he was in the back of a van, most likely a transit, and even more likely the one that had been seen to pick up John and Mary not too long ago. He listened to the surrounding noise and guessed he was travelling around 30 miles an hour, inner suburbs then, clearly not far from their destination.

A bump in the road made him open his eyes but they only met cloth. Blindfolded then. He would have to rely on his other senses to deduce the rest.

The tyres met gravel and the van began to roll to a halt. He didn't have long. In a second he reached awkwardly with bound wrists into his jacket, his coat was missing and who knew where. The idiots had clearly stripped him of his coat but failed to search his jacket where his phone was located. He managed to unlock it and with perfect memory began to type in a text to Lestrade, unsure if it made an ounce of sense. As the back doors of the van flew open he tossed the phone sideways, hoping that both the message sent and his captors didn't see it. Perhaps Mycroft's cronies would pick up the GPS location and send some sort of aid.

Two sets of hands grabbed at the detectives arms, pulling him upwards with force. A small wave of vertigo hit him, but he soon shook it off when one of his captors punched him in the side.

"Move!" The man growled. 6ft 2, bald, wearing swede shoes and a leather jacket as far as Sherlock could tell for now.

The detective stepped forward, careful of his footing on the gravelled ground. He was pushed along quicker. The smell of the salty Thames water hit is senses, so he was right, still in Greenwich, south of the river and by the sounds of the nearby roads and close by the Greenwich pumping station he thought. He was pushed again and he nearly stumbled over. The two men laughed at his expense.

"I may find it easier to walk in a straight line, if I were not blindfolded." Sherlock said simply.

The second man pushed harder, larger build thought the detective as he tumbled forward and hit the gravel below. A steel toe capped boot flew into his ribs and Sherlock let out a grunt in pain.

"Get up!"

The consultant didn't move, winded from the blow he struggled with a breath, his ribs were probably cracked. Another blow hit him in the same spot and he cried out this time, agony flashing though him, broken then. And then another blow on the opposite side. He curled slightly inward as both the men laughed kicking him.

"Boys." A third voice appeared into Sherlock's senses. "I said no spoiling didn't I?" He knew that voice all too well, even though he hadn't met the man. "Shall we get him inside and reunited with his little friends."

The consultant was quickly pulled to his feet in a second by both his captors and Sherlock took that moment to swiftly pull the blindfold from his eyes, the blinding afternoon summer sun flooded into his vision.

"Nice to see you too. Seb." He said with as much sarcasm as his winded voice would allow.

"I prefer, Colonel Moran." Sebastian smirked, the man turned his back and waltzed towards the nearby building. "Bring him."

Sherlock was herded forward and he chose not to resist. Besides he was here to rescue John and Mary, even if it wasn't in the way he was planning. He took in his surroundings quickly, absorbing whatever useful information he could. As he thought he was next to the pumping station and being escorted into the nearby building, clearly a small office or control area. The two men either side hurried him along and into the building. Inside was a maze of corridors and rooms and he was pushed through several, down two flights of stairs with difficultly and finally to a dank cold room with one small ladder heading down again.

The horror which met Sherlock after heading down that ladder made him wish he'd been quicker. The room was vast, and from what he could tell seemed to be some sort of holding reservoir for the London water system, most likely an overflow tunnel. Sherlock was not unfamiliar with the capitals sewage system but there were plenty of tunnels and networks he didn't know of, this clearly being one. Mary and John were facing one another the other end of the 'room', both tied roughly to a horrible cold steel chair, Mary facing him and John not. As the detective was pushed closer the doctor turned his head, eyes coming to meet his friend.

"Sher..." His voice faded off.

John's face was a mirage of bruises where he had clearly been beaten, his lip was split and still bleeding quite heavily. But it was John's eyes that caused Sherlock's heart to sink to the pit of his stomach. They were dark and lifeless, the physical injuries he was sporting had nothing on the look in his eyes. He let his eyes wander to Mary and almost gasped at the sight of her. Much of her clothes had been stripped, her body was shaking uncontrollably from either cold or shock, Sherlock thought probably the latter. Several burns and cuts littered her skin but what sickened the detective the most was the long machete still embedded deep within her shoulder, a long stream of blood had flowed down her torso and into her lap.

The detective now speechless was pushed again and he fell, stifling a cry at the jolt on his fractured ribs. The laughing from behind him made his lips curl into a snarl, with little thought he started to work on his wrist bindings, determined to break himself free. He was used to scenes of torture or even being on the end of it, but what he called his friends on the receiving end was unacceptable in the detectives books.

"Thank you boys." Sebastian waved the two men who has brought Sherlock off and both then disappeared from the room leaving just the four of them. "All reunited now." Moran's feet came into Sherlock's vision from the floor. "The detective, the soldier and the assassin." He laughed, voice echoing around the room. "Your quite a complex little trio, aren't you."

"Piss off!" John's angry voice sounded.

Sebastian stepped forward, planting a punch clean across John's cheek with a horrible crack. "What did I tell you about that foul mouth of yours."

John remained slightly bent sideways from the blow, he was breathing hard from the pain but refused to show any other signs of his agony. Moran continued on.

"Would you like to watch me do the same to your lovely detective as I did to your wife."

The doctor didn't answer, he simply stared at the ground.

"Gone mute?" Moran laughed.

"I see the fondness for Moriarty has clouded your mind into madness." Sherlock did not try to stand from the floor, he was still quietly working hard on the horrible plastic binds cutting into his wrists.

Moran kicked him roughly in the chest and the detective stifled a cry of pain.

The consultant laughed, sitting up taller. "Sentiment." He smiled, "a chemical defect. One that is always found on the losing side."

"He's right you know." John piped up.

"You killed him." Moran shouted, and it was the first time John had seen the man's emotion set loose. "Do you know how many she killed?" He pointed to Mary accusingly.

Mary looked up, her eyes now slits from the pain. Sherlock knew he needed to get her out soon or there would be no chance of getting her out at all.

"Yes." Sherlock answered. "But what does that matter, I know how many you've killed too."

John started laughing this time, and although his face still remained in a stoney stare a long drawn out laugh appeared. Sherlock really knew how to play people.

Sebastian's face turned red with fury. Digging into his pocket he drew out a small syringe and plunged the needle deep into the doctors arm delivering the contents. "Shut up!" He shouted, clearly unhinged. He pulled out a second dose of the drug and then several things happened at once.

Sherlock's hands popped free from his bonds, with a small grunt he felt his thumb dislocate painfully. He rushed upward, knocking the syringe from the mans hands he grappled with him for a moment until Moran finally sent a blow to the detectives face.

"No." John's already slurring speech appeared over the scuffle. "Sherlock, stop." His head slumped forward then and he struggled with his consciousness.

In a second Sebastian pulled out a hand gun from his jacket pointing it directly at Mary. "She will pay for what she did. With her life."

Sherlock bowled forward again, grabbing at the gun haphazardly. It fired and the detective stumbled on his feet falling to his knees he took a sharp intake of breath, agony exploding in his skull. He brought a hand up to his head but jerked it back when more pain split though him, his fingers came away slick with crimson.

Moran laughed and the gun fired again. Sherlock looked up, eyes hazy with pain, he could smell the gunpowder then so strongly as if it were caked in his nostrils. In the dim light he could see the gun still pointed to its target. Mary.

"No." John's weak voice cut through the silence.

Sherlock stumbled upward and collided with Mary but it was too late. Her head was lolled back, mouth slack and eyes still slightly open. Even though his own fuzzy gaze the detective could see the bullet hole in the centre of her forehead, she was gone. The sound of Moran's wicked laugh appeared again. Sherlock's bottom lip wobbled, his nose scrunched and jaw clamped together in uncontrollable anger.

In one swift but uncoordinated movement the detective pulled the machete from Mary's shoulder. He growled spinning and slashing out and into Sebastian's armed appendage which was now pointing to John. Moran screamed as the weapon sliced deeply into his flesh but he did not drop the gun, still pointing true to the doctor. Sherlock was too quick and within a split second swung the blade again, this time cleaving straight through the arm.

Colonel Moran staggered back perplexed for a moment at the predicament of the situation. The amount of blood already lost told him he didn't have long. As Sherlock leapt forward again he chose to flee like a coward.

The detective watched him fly up the escape ladder he turned to John who was now unconscious. "John?" He dropped the machete falling unceremoniously to his knees before his friend. "John wake up. We need to get out."

There was no answer. The pounding in Sherlock's head heightened, he brought a shaky hand to the wound and hissed as it made contact with it. His eyes began to darken. He tried to pull himself up but failed, crumpling to the cold stone ground he passed out numb from pain and grief.


End file.
